'    ■    ■        :    i    :        ■ 

- 

-  ■ 

..     .  .       .  ,     ..     . 


'     /     '  :  ■    : 

■':■•■■ 


SkfaAfc      WJlirt*. 


ARCHIBALD  MARSHALL  WITH  HIS 
DAUGHTER 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE   HOUSE   OF   MERKILEES 

RICHARD    BALDOCK 

KXTON   MANOR 

TDK  SgUIRES  DAUGHTER 

THE   ELDEST  SON 

THE  HONOUR   OF  THE  CLINTONS 

THE   GREATEST   OF  THESE 

THE  OLD   ORDER  CHANGETH 

WATBRMBiDe 

UPSIDONIA 

ABINGTON   ABBEY 

THE   (JRAFTONS 

THE  CLINTONS,  AND   OTHERS 

SIS  HARRT 

MANY  JUNES 


THE 
CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 


BY 


ARCHIBALD  MARSHALL 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  1919 
By  DODD,   MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  Inc. 


TO 
E.  C.  BENTLEY 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
3 


Kencote 

The  Terrors 41 

A  Son  of  Service 

"  In  That  State  of  Life  " 95 

155 
The  Builder 

The  Little  Squire 175 

Audacious  Ann 

The  Bookkeeper 30S 

The  Squire  and  the  War 327 


KENCOTE 


THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 


KENCOTE 


THE  narrow  streets  of  the  City  resounded  with 
the  clangour  of  church  bells.  It  was  a  sunny 
morning  in  late  September,  and  such  of  the 
citizens  of  London  as  still  resided  within  the  boundaries 
were  making  their  way,  with  their  wives  and  families, 
to  their  respective  parish  churches,  which  were  some- 
times so  close  together  that  a  stone  thrown  from  one 
tower  or  steeple  could  have  hit  another. 

The  bells  of  the  city  still  ring  out  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings and  evenings,  but  they  call  few  parishioners  to 
church.  The  streets,  so  thronged  on  week  days,  are  a 
desert;  for  the  citizens  of  London  now  live  elsewhere, 
and  those  that  are  left  of  the  fine  old  dwelling-houses 
are  let  out  into  offices,  and  may  deliver  up  the  children 
of  an  occasional  caretaker  to  the  ministrations  of  re- 
ligion, but  never  a  well-to-do  City  family  out  of  all  those 
that  used  to  inhabit  them. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  exodus 
had  already  begun.  City  magnates  lived  in  Bloomsbury 
or  Holborn,  or  in  the  nearer  suburbs,  or  had  migrated 
to  the  pleasant  villages  of  Dulwieh  or  Hampstead,  where 
they  could  enjoy  complete  rurality  within  a  few  miles 
of  their  offices  and  warehouses. 

But  there  were  some  who  clung  to  the  old  ways  of 
living;  and  most  of  the  tradespeople  within  the  City 
boundaries  still  lived  over  their  shops.     So  that  on  this 


4  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

fine  Sunday  morning  the  streets  were  quite  respectably 
filled  with  churchgoers,  dressed  in  their  sober  best,  most 
of  whom  were  inclined  to  congratulate  themselves  on  the 
return  of  the  day  which  closed  all  the  shops  and  offices 
and  opened  all  the  churches.  For  our  greatgrandpar- 
entfl  uric  more  regular  in  their  habits  than  we  are,  be- 
sides being  greater  sermon-fanciers ;  and  the  weekly 
change  of  habit  stood  for  a  good  deal  to  them  for  which 
nowadays  we  go  further  afield. 

Making  for  the  fine  church  of  St.  Stephen's,  Wall- 
brook,  hard  by  the  Mansion  House,  was  a  family  more 
typical  of  the  City  in  appearance  than  it  was  in  actual- 
ity. The  head  of  it,  John  Clinton,  a  prosperous  mer- 
chant in  the  silk  trade,  looked  the  part,  indeed,  to  the 
life.  He  was  not  much  past  fifty,  but  with  his  portly 
presence,  and  deliberate  well-satisfied  air,  he  appeared  to 
be  a  man  of  substance  who  was  quite  content  with  the 
position  in  which  he  found  himself,  and  would  feel  out 
of  place  in  any  other.  His  wife  too,  in  her  rich  silks, 
which  were  yet  not  quite  in  the  mode,  would  have  been 
taken  anywhere  for  a  city  dame;  and  her  parentage 
was  purely  mercantile,  not  to  say  aldermanic.  But 
John  Clinton  belonged  by  birth  to  the  landed  gentry, 
and  came  of  a  very  old  and  honourable  family.  He  had 
been  apprenticed  to  trade  in  his  youth,  as  was  sometimes 
done  in  those  days  in  the  case  of  younger  sons,  and  had 
prospered  as  a  merchant  by  his  own  capacity  and 
diligence.  He  loved  the  City,  and  still  lived  there ;  but 
whenever  his  eldest  brother,  who  was  unmarried  and 
something  of  a  rake,  should  die,  he  would  succeed  to 
the  family  estates,  when  he  had  every  intention  of  trans- 
forming himself  into  as  capable  a  country  gentleman 
as  he  had  been  a  city  merchant. 

The  family  with  which  this  fortunate  pair  had  been 


KENCOTE  5 

blessed,  and  which  now  accompanied  them  in  their  de- 
liberate, arm-in-arm  progress,  consisted  of  three  sons 
and  one  daughter. 

The  eldest  son,  a  lean,  hard-bodied  young  man  in  a 
military  surtout,  had  just  been  invalided  home  from 
India,  where  he  had  been  fighting  and  marching  for 
four  years  under  General  Arthur  Wellesley.  The  sec- 
ond had  a  look  of  freshness  which  seemed  to  bespeak  a 
country  rather  than  a  town  upbringing.  He  had  been 
educated  at  the  Merchant  Tailors'  School,  and  was 
shortly  going  on  to  St.  John's  College  at  Oxford,  with 
a  view  to  Holy  Orders  and  the  family  living.  He  was 
a  good  scholar,  but  his  passion  was  for  the  sports  of 
the  field,  which  he  had  had  more  opportunities  of  en- 
joying than  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  city-bred  youth; 
for  he  had  spent  many  of  his  holidays  with  his  uncle, 
the  present  rector  of  Kencote,  in  Meadshire,  where  lay 
the  Clinton  estates. 

Neither  of  these  two  young  men  had  any  of  the  air 
of  the  City  about  them,  but  the  third,  who  was  still 
at  Sir  Roger  Cholmeley's  School  at  Highgate,  where, 
being  rather  delicate,  he  had  been  sent  on  account  of 
the  good  air,  seemed  cut  out  to  succeed  his  father  in 
business,  as  it  was  intended  that  he  should  do.  He 
had  a  clever,  rather  sharp,  but  by  no  means  cunning 
face,  and  much  preferred  spending  his  holidays  within 
sound  of  Bow  Bells  than  among  the  fields  and  woods  that 
surrounded  Kencote. 

The  little  girl  of  seven,  who  held  her  mother's  hand, 
and  tripped  it  sedately,  in  her  long  high-waisted  frock 
and  bonnet  trimmed  with  swansdown,  was  the  prettiest 
fairy  imaginable,  and  might  be  expected  to  turn  the 
heads  of  whatever  male  society  she  should  find  herself 
in  by  and  by,  whether  it  was  that  of  the  city  or  the 
county. 


6  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

The  churches  gradually  filled,  the  clocks  chimed  the 
hour,  and  the  bells  ceased  their  clamour,  which  was 
taken  up  on  a  more  subdued  note  by  the  drone  of  organs 
and  the  singing  of  choirs  and  congregations.  The 
autumn  sun  shone  on  the  shutters  and  barred  doors  of 
the  shops,  and  on  streets  nearly  empty  of  human  life, 
the  few  foot  passengers  hurrying  along  somewhat 
shami  facedlv,  as  if  aware  that  absence  from  church  at 
that  hour  threw  doubts  at  least  upon  their  respecta( 
bility,  if  not  upon  their  orthodoxy. 

This  consideration  did  not  appear  to  affect  tht 
occupant  of  a  smart-looking  cabriolet  which  drove  down 
Cheapside  an  hour  or  two  later,  just  as  the  first  efflux 
from  the  churches  was  beginning.  He  was  a  man  at  first 
sight  young,  at  second  middle-aged,  if  not  elderly. 
He  was  foppishly  dressed,  and  wore  his  hair  in  the  new 
style,  curled  and  pomatumed  but  not  powdered.  Prob- 
ably it  was  his  only  by  purchase,  for  its  light  browi* 
tinge  belied  the  crowsfcet  that  showed  on  his  face,  al- 
though it  was  in  accord  with  his  slim  laced-up  figure. 

The  high-stepping  horse  was  drawn  up  with  a  flour- 
ish before  the  door  of  John  Clinton's  handsome  por 
ticoed  house  in  Bucklersbury,  the  diminutive  groom 
hopped  from  his  perch  to  ring  the  bell,  and.  when  it 
was  answered,  took  his  place  at  the  horse's  head,  while 
his  master  entered  the  house,  not  without  elderly  bend- 
ings  and  adjustments  of  legs  and  back. 

He  was  shown  into  a  severely  furnished  parlour,  and 
by  his  expression,  which  was  one  of  boredom  and  some 
contempt,  did  not  appear  to  find  himself  in  congenial 
surroundings.  Not  to  keep  so  important  a  personage 
any  longer  unintroduced  —  he  was  John  Clinton's  eld- 
est brother,  owner  of  Kencote  and  all  its  wide  lands, 
but  a  resident  there  as  little  as  possible  and  a  landlord 


KENCOTE  7 

who  considered  his  duty  towards  his  tenants  accom- 
plished when  he  had  taken  as  much  from  them  as  he 
could,  and  given  as  little  as  possible  in  return. 

He  was  known  as  Beau  Clinton,  had  been  a  dashing 
man  about  town  for  the  past  thirty  years  and  more, 
and  a  crony  of  that  pattern  of  royal  grace  and  virtue, 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  for  longer  than  most  of  his  kidney 
managed  to  retain  the  somewhat  precarious  position. 
He  had  run  through  a  fine  fortune  years  before,  had 
piled  up  mortgages  on  Kencote  as  long  as  any  one  could 
be  found  to  advance  money  on  it,  and  was  getting  deeper 
into  debt  every  day.  But  he  had  always  kept  the 
highest  company  and  lived  in  the  most  fashionable  part 
of  the  town,  and  could  hardly  be  expected  to  wait  in 
a  citizen's  parlour  without  showing  some  signs  of  dis- 
gust, even  though  that  citizen  was  his  own  brother,  of 
blood  as  good  as  his,  who  had  been  steadily  amassing 
a  fortune  while  he  had  been  dissipating  one. 

He  was  at  the  window  when  his  brother  and  his  family 
returned  from  church,  and  saw  the  disapproval  on  the 
Merchant's  face  as  he  looked  at  the  smart  equipage 
standing  before  his  door. 

But  John  Clinton  came  into  the  room,  followed  by  his 
family,  with  no  trace  of  that  disapproval  visible.  The 
Merchant  did  not  approve  of  the  Beau,  but  he  was  his 
eldest  brother  and  the  head  of  his  house,  and  would  al- 
ways be  given  a  welcome  whenever  he  honoured  him  with 
a  visit. 

He  was  now  cordially  pressed  to  stay  and  dine,  but 
while  he  politely  concealed  his  disgust  at  the  idea  of  a 
man  of  his  fashion  eating  his  dinner  at  such  a  time  of 
the  day,  and  within  an  hour  of  his  having  taken  his 
morning  chocolate,  his  refusal  was  firm.  He  had  come 
to  see  his  brother  on  a  little  matter  of  business,  and  must 


8  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

then  be  getting  back  to  the  other  end  of  the  town.  But 
he  whs  not  in  such  a  hurry  as  to  refrain  from  a  few  com- 
plimenta  to  his  sister-in-law,  a  word  or  two  to  each  of 
his  nephews,  and  the  graceful  presentation  of  a  box 
of  French  sweetmeats  to  his  little  niece.  Then  the 
family  hied  out  of  the  room,  and  the  brothers  were  left 
alone  together. 

"  I  do  not  like  transacting  business  on  the  Lord's 
Day,  Richard,"  said  the  Merchant,  as  he  closed  the 
door,  "  and  if  yours  has  anything  to  do  with  raising 
money,  as  seems  probable,  I  must  tell  you  at  once  that 
your  visit  will  be  wasted." 

The  good  man  was  ruffled  at  the  refusal  of  his  hos- 
pitality, and  his  patience  with  his  brother's  financial 
habits  had  long  since  worn  thin. 

"  La,  my  dear  Jack !  "  replied  the  Beau,  "  How  you 
take  one  up !  It  is  a  very  small  matter  I  have  come  to 
you  about,  and  I  have  something  to  tell  you  at  which 
you  will  be  as  pleased  as  I.  You  have  always  twitted 
me  with  neglecting  Kencote,  and  perhaps  with  some 
reason.  But  I  have  secured  an  honour  for  our  house 
which  has  not  come  to  us  before.  His  Royal  Highness 
intends  making  a  tour  through  the  country  to  visit  the 
mansions  of  some  of  his  friends  among  the  high  no- 
bility, and  he  has  done  me  the  honour  of  including 
Kencote.  None  of  his  other  hosts  will  be  under  the 
rank  of  an  earl,  and  I  am  naturally  pleased  with  this 
mark  of  royal  condescension." 

That  the  Merchant  was  not  particularly  pleased  with 
it  might  have  been  gathered  from  his  face.  But  he 
would  not  say  a  word  against  one  who  must  very  shortly 
become   his    sovereign. 

"  Well,  and  what  then?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  then?     Why  the  house  must  be  done  up,  and 


KENCOTE  9 

some  of  the  rooms  refurnished,  and  the  Prince  must 
be  entertained  in  a  way  that  will  not  compare  unfav- 
ourably with  that  of  the  other  houses  he  will  visit.  He 
will  only  be  at  Kencote  one  night,  and  I  can  do  all  that 
is  necessary  for  a  thousand  pounds,  but  not  less.  But 
for  the  damnable  luck  I  have  had  lately  I  should  not 
trouble  you  about  so  small  a  matter ;  but  — " 

"  A  thousand  pounds !  "  interrupted  the  Merchant. 
"  A  thousand  pounds  for  one  night's  lodging,  and  I  am 
to  provide  it,  Richard,  after  all  I  have  done  for  you, 
and  for  Kencote !  Why  not  ask  for  a  hundred  thou- 
sand at  once?  The  proposal  is  absurd,  and  you  must 
have  known  that  I  should  refuse  it,  as  of  course  I  do." 

The  Beau  slightly  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  in  pain. 
"  My  dear  brother,"  he  said,  "  you  are  so  loud  and 
rough.  I  protest  that  there  is  no  need  for  it.  Listen 
to  me.  The  bulk  of  the  money  will  go  to  restoring  the 
house,  which  is  in  a  devilish  bad  state  of  repair,  and  to 
refurnishing  the  apartments  which  the  Prince  will  use. 
After  my  death  —  which  it  should  desolate  you  to  think 
of,  but  to  which,  no  doubt,  you  are  eagerly  looking 
forward  —  Kencote  will  be  yours,  and  you  will  get  the 
benefit  of  this  expenditure." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  the  Merchant ;  "  but  you  are  quite 
wrong  in  thinking  that  I  am  looking  forward  to  your 
death,  and  it  is  a  wrong  thing  to  say,  Richard.  It 
may  be  years  before  I  succeed,  and  I  hope  it  will  be. 
I  am  very  well  content  as  I  am  for  the  present,  and 
it  is  quite  possible  that  I  may  die  before  you.  But  in 
the  meantime  I  shall  not  spend  money  in  doing  up  Ken- 
cote for  your  benefit,  nor  even  that  of  His  Royal  High- 
ness, if  he  proposes  to  stay  there  no  more  than  one 
night;  and  you  may  take  that  as  settled." 

The  Beau  closed  his  eyes  again,  with  the  gesture  that 


10  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

so  irritated  his  brother.  "  There  is  another  considera- 
tion," he  Baid.  u  I  have  had  no  promises;  no  promises 
could  I*-  given.  But  our  family  is  a  devilish  old  one 
—  a  good  deal  older  than  that  of  most  of  the  noble 
lord-  on  whom  our  Prinny  is  to  shed  the  light  of  his 
august  countenance.  When  he  comes  to  the  throne, 
which  must  be  very  soon,  now,  there  will  be  honours  to 
be  bestowed  on  those  who  are  worthy  of  them.  I  dare 
you  take  me." 

The  Merchant  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment.  Then 
his  frown  deepened.  "  If  it  is  a  title  you  are  angling 
for,  Richard."  he  said,  "  I  think  you  should  take  shame 
on  yourself  for  such  an  idea.  We  Clintons  have  been 
at  Kencote  for  over  five  hundred  years,  and  want  no 
titles  to  gild  our  gentility;  least  of  all  titles  that  are 
bought.  Besides,  a  title  conferred  on  you  would  die 
with  you.  Why  should  it  tempt  me  to  give  you  money? 
I  will  not  do  so;  and  if  you  have  nothing  more  to  say  to 
me  I  will  now  go  to  my  dinner." 

The  Beau  knew  enough  of  his  brother  to  avoid  wasting 
his  time  in  persuasion  when  he  had  expressed  himself  in 
this  way.  He  rose  from  his  chair  with  a  languid,  fine- 
gentleman  air.  "  I  was  about  to  say  that  it  is  not; 
unknown  for  honours  to  be  conferred  with  succession 
to  brothers  and  nephews,"  he  said.  "  But  it  is  useless 
to  talk  to  you  when  you  are  in  your  business  mood.  It 
is  one  I  do  not  understand,  and  cannot  cope  with.  I 
will  wish  you  farewell,  Brother  Jack,  and  beg  you  to 
consider  that  I  am  not  yet  past  the  marriageable  age, 
and  — " 

"  You  have  held  that  threat  over  me  before,"  said  the 

Merchant,   now  thoroughly   angry.     "  In   God's   name 

v  if  von  wish  to,  and  settle  down  into  a  more  worthy 

head  of  our  family  than  you  have  yet  shown  yourself." 


KENCOTE  11 

"  I  will  also  say,"  added  the  Beau,  unmoved  by  this 
outburst,  "  that  there  are  ways  of  raising  the  pitiful 
sum  you  have  refused  me  which  will  probably  suit  you 
less  than  lending  it  to  me  would  have  done.  His  Royal 
Highness  will  come  to  Kencote,  and  will  be  suitably  en- 
tertained there.     Good  morning,  Brother  Jack." 

II 

Somewhat  restored  to  his  equanimity  by  a  good  din- 
ner, the  Merchant  sat  over  his  wine  with  his  two  elder 
sons. 

The  Beau  had  succeeded  in  offending  all  three  of 
them.  Young  Thomas  had  fought  with  distinction  at 
Assaye,  and  been  wounded  at  Argaum,  rather  seriously. 
His  uncle  had  had  little  to  say  about  that,  but  had 
asked  after  various  young  lordlings  campaigning  with 
the  guards,  or  on  the  staff  of  General  Wellesley,  whom 
he,  as  ensign  in  a  regiment  of  the  line  had  not  been 
likely  to  meet. 

Young  Giles  had  taken  a  scholarship  from  the  Mer- 
chant Tailors'  School  to  St.  John's  College,  and  the 
Beau  had  expressed  regret  that  he  had  not  been  sent 
to  Eton  and  to  Trinity  College  at  Cambridge,  at  which 
aristocratic  foundations  he  himself  had  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  his  spendthrift  career. 

Their  father  had  once  more  been  outraged  at  being 
treated  with  disdain  as  a  mere  "  cit,"  by  a  brother  who, 
if  he  had  worthily  fulfilled  his  responsibilities,  would 
have  been  a  richer  man  than  he  was,  and  who  had  al- 
lowed the  fine  house  in  which  they  had  been  brought  up 
together  to  sink  from  its  honourable  state  into  one  of 
almost  entire  desertion.  It  was  this  contemptuous 
treatment    that    always    aroused    his    gorge.     If    his 


THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

brother  had  come  to  him  in  a  proper  way,  he  might  have 
he  money  that  he  wanted:  for  it  was  true 
that  he  would  eventually  have  the  benefit  of  its  main  ex- 
penditure, and  he  would  not  have  been  averse  to  seeing 
onoured  by  a  visit  from  his  future  sovereign, 
althc    _  personal  opinion  of  him  was  not  of  the 

high 

Now,  however,  he  was  actively  incensed  against  the 

.  more  so  against  his  brother :  so  much  so 

be  was  ready  to  discuss  him  with  his   sons   in  a 

more  open  manner  than  would  usually  have  been  con- 

-ed  becoming  in  those  days. 

"  I  think  nothing  of  his  threat  to  marry,"  he  said. 

44  He  would  not  marry  except  for  money,  and  he  has 

little  to  offer  in  exchange  for  that  now,  whatever  may 

have  been  the  case  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago.     It  is 

his  threat  to  raise  monev  in  a  way  that  I  shall  object 

to  that  I  fear.     What  will  he  do?     He  cannot  raise 

another  penny  on  mortgage." 

He  can  sell  timber,  sir,"  said  Thomas. 
"  That  has  been  considered  before,"  said  the  Mer- 
chant, "  and  I  have  been  able  to  stop  it." 

is  being  considered  again  now,"  said  Giles,  who 
returned  from  Kencote  Rectory  only  the  day  be- 
fore, in  has  been  staying  at  Bathgate  and  has 
"  intly  been  through  the  woods  at  Kencote,  measur- 
ing and  valuing.     Uncle  Edward  and  I  got  it  out  of  him 
what  he  was  there  fc 

face  darkened.     u  It  is  a  disgrace- 

He  knows  well  enough  that  he 

canr    -  -  of  timber  without  my  permission." 

r.y  uncle  said  that  it  would  need  a  legal  process, 

-  . -nber  being  cut,  and  that  the  mischief 

_  .t  be  done  in  the  meantime." 


EXNCOTE 

Hub   was    true,  and  the  Merchant's  face  darkened 
still  more.     B  d  no  doubt  hare  legal  redr,  - 

his  brother  exceeded  hi?  rights  as  tenant  for  lif; 
what  was  that  worth  against  a  man  who  was  practically 
bankrupt  ? 

*'  I:  woold  be  a  wicked  thini:  I  -  udL      "  Ken- 

cote  has  been  let  down  past  all  belief  since  mj 
time,  and  if  the  timber  were  felled  it  would  be  beyond 
bringing  round  for  another  two  gen-. 

"  I  think  there  is  little  doubt,    s .-."    >aid  Thomas, 
"  that  it  ber-felling  that  he  referred  to  when 

he  threatened  you.     I  had  be:: 

cote,  and  keep  an  eve  on  whs*    -  _       _  I  promise 

you.  at  least,  that  nothing  shall  be  done  without 
-ing  of  i:  '* 

After  cons  scossmb,  this «        -         -     _ 

upon.     T  ng     *?cer.  too  weak  as  take  the 

journey  on  :  .   travel]  into   M 

the  old  market 
of  Bathf  thes  s  uncle : 

met  him  with  a  ch  irore  him  tv- .        ss  along 

miry  roads  :  :e. 

.  Reverend  Edward  Clinton,  unlike  the 
of  his  family,  ws- 
fell»w  of  King's  ( 

s  snug 
s 

groom 

tuna* 

resent  si  es 

5 

with  .        5  letting  ii 


14-  TIIK  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

windows  letting  in  the  wind.  This  concerned  him 
chiefly  because  cottages  were  property,  and  it  was  part 
of  the  genera]  state  of  affairs  that  those  in  the  village 
of  Kencote  were  being  badly  let  down,  with  all  the  rest. 
In  his  youth,  he  and  the  large  family  of  which  he  was 
the  third  son  had  lived  in  the  great  house,  and  there  had 
been  merry  times  there,  with  coming  and  going  of  coun- 
try neighbours,  much  lavish  hospitality,  and  at  least 
an  outward  air  of  prosperity  among  the  peasantry, 
who  had  been  souped  and  coaled  and  blanketed  into  some 
oblivion  of  low  wages  and  inconvenient,  though  pic- 
turesque, dwellings.  Now  it  was  as  if  a  blight  had  de- 
scended upon  the  pleasant  country-side.  The  great 
house,  which  ought  to  have  played  a  leading  part  among 
the  other  great  houses  of  the  neighbourhood,  was  shut 
up  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  Not  a  tenant  but 
what  was  grumbling,  not  a  wall  or  a  roof  or  a  gate  or 
a  fence  but  needed  repair;  and  worst  of  all,  not  a  whist 
table  within  reach,  without  taking  out  a  horse  and 
braving  the  dreadful  roads,  which  in  those  days  were 
almost  impassable  in  winter. 

Tlie  Rector  of  Kencote  was  too  much  of  a  philoso- 
pher to  allow  these  incidental  drawbacks  to  weigh 
upon  him.  The  roof  of  his  own  house  was  sound 
enough,  and  he  had  beneath  it  all  the  materials  for  the 
kind  of  life  that  suited  him.  But  he  had  quarrelled 
fiercely  with  his  brother,  the  Beau,  on  account  of  his 
treatment  of  Kencote,  and  felt  considerable  satisfac- 
tion in  acting  as  watchdog  over  the  place,  so  that  its 
owner  should  get  as  much  annoyance  as  might  be  over 
the  neglect  of  his  duties,  and  be  restrained  from  de- 
pleting  it-  revenues  further  than  he  was  entitled  to  do. 

u  \\  ■  M    stopped  my  gentleman  from  poking  his  nose 


KENCOTE  15 

into  the  woods,"  he  chuckled  to  his  nephew,  as  they 
bumped  together  over  the  rutty  roads. 

M  How  did  you  do  it,  sir?  "  asked  Thomas. 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me,  my  boy.  Vd  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  Some  of  the  villagers  seem  to  have  taken  a  dislike 
to  him.  I  don't  fancy  they  did  him  much  harm.  If 
he  did  get  his  head  broken,  they'll  patch  it  up  for  him 
in  London.  That's  where  he's  gone  back  to.  Laid  an 
information  before  me  as  a  magistrate  before  he  went ; 
but  it  was  a  dark  night  —  he'd  lost  his  horse  and  cart, 
I  don't  know  how  —  cart  was  found  in  a  ditch  next  day 
—  and  he  was  walking  back  to  Bathgate.  I  told  him 
I'd  do  what  I  could,  but  unless  he  could  identify  the  men 
who  had  set  on  him,  I  didn't  think  I  could  do  much. 
Lots  of  bad  characters  about,  I  said.  Wouldn't  hear 
of  its  being  any  of  my  people.  They  wouldn't  do  such 
a  thing  —  much  too  well  taught." 

The  Rector  went  off  into  a  series  of  chuckles,  and  his 
nephew  laughed  heartily.  Then  he  told  his  uncle  about 
the  prospective  honour  that  was  to  be  conferred  upon 
Kencote. 

"  Now  there  are  some  men  in  my  position,"  said  the 
Rector,  when  he  had  digested  the  information,  "  who 
would  see  a  great  stroke  to  be  performed  for  them- 
selves there.  They  would  come  bowing  and  scraping 
to  his  Royal  Highness,  and  expect  a  bishopric  to  come 
of  it,  or  at  least  a  deanery.  If  the  Prince  comes  here, 
I  shall  not  go  near  him,  Tom." 

"  My  father  says  he  should  be  treated  with  respect." 

"  I  shall  take  myself  off.  I  shall  have  an  urgent  call 
to  go  to  Cambridge.  The  Beau  will  expect  the  village 
to  collect  and  huzza,  with  me  at  the  head  of  it.  The 
village  may  do  what  it  pleases,  but  it  will  get  no  help 


16  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

in >in  mt.  My  brother  has  played  a  bad  part  at  Kencote 
for  many  years.  It  is  not  to  be  smoothed  over,  and 
everything  to  be  made  to  look  happy  and  prosperous  for 
the  occasion.  Let  him  explain  my  absence  to  the 
Prince,  if  he  can." 

Young  Thomas  heartily  approved  of  this  attitude. 
Kencote  was  as  the  breath  of  his  nostrils  to  him.  When 
he  had  lain  out  on  the  field  of  battle,  during  that  long 
night,  he  had  thought  in  his  fever  that  he  was  wander- 
ing about  its  woods  and  meadows ;  and  afterwards,  a 
factor  in  his  recovery  had  been  the  strong  determina- 
tion that  he  would  not  die  and  lose  the  happy  lot  that 
would  one  day  be  his,  of  living  in  the  old  house,  and 
taking  his  pleasure  over  the  broad  acres  that  went  with 
it. 

He  was  not  strong  enough  for  much  exercise  yet,  but 
he  went  out  the  next  morning  with  a  dog  and  a  gun, 
along  the  village  street,  and  into  the  park,  through 
the  principal  lodge  gates. 

The  house  came  immediately  into  view  —  a  massive 
pile  of  red  brick,  flanked  and  fronted  by  high-walled 
formal  gardens,  of  a  date  much  older.  The  stately 
mansion,  which  had  been  built  at  the  same  time  as  they 
had  been  laid  out,  had  been  burnt  down  about  a  hun- 
dred years  before,  and  this  one  had  been  built  in  its 
place.  It  was  a  fine,  solid  house,  with  great  high  square 
rooms  and  many  of  them,  but  it  did  not  suit  the  taste 
of  that  age,  which  had  come  to  despise  red  brick,  and 
often  disguised  it  with  the  newly  invented  stucco.  Nor 
were  the  Elizabethan  gardens,  with  their  wonderful 
clipped  yews,  bowling  alleys,  fish-ponds  and  fountains, 
a?i\  longer  admired.  Taste  had  moved  on  to  an  arti- 
ficial aping  of  nature,  and  many  a  beautiful  pleasaunce 
of  this  sort  had  been  swept  away  at  the  hands  of  "  Ca- 


KENCOTE  17 

pability  Brown  "  and  his  pupils,  to  make  room  for  vast 
lawns,  and  carefully  disposed  groups  of  trees  and 
shrubs. 

But  young  Thomas  saw  little  to  complain  of  in 
house  and  garden  as  they  were,  if  only  they  had  been 
in  decent  repair.  The  gardens  were  a  wilderness.  The 
peacocks  and  pyramids  and  arcadings  of  yew  were  run- 
ning wild,  the  paths  were  moss-grown,  the  knots  and 
parterres  full  of  weeds,  the  fountains  choked.  He  stood 
by  a  broken  sundial  and  looked  up  at  the  house,  the 
brickwork  of  which  wanted  pointing,  the  woodwork 
repainting.  All  the  windows  were  shuttered;  no  smoke 
went  up  from  the  chimneys.  It  was  a  dead  husk  of  a 
house,  forsaken  and  despised.  And  yet  there  were  those 
who  loved  it,  and  looked  upon  it  as  their  chief  glory. 

He  turned  away  with  a  muttered  expression  of  anger, 
and  looked  round  on  the  well-treed  park  and  the  thick 
woods  of  the  surrounding  country.  The  foolish  spend- 
thrift who  could  leave  all  this  beauty  and  dignity  to 
rot  and  decay,  while  he  took  his  pleasure  in  the  nar- 
row streets  of  a  town,  should  not  bring  further  ruin 
upon  it,  for  the  sake  of  an  empty  honour.  The  fleet- 
ing patronage  of  royalty  was  not  what  Kencote  wanted, 
but  the  homage  of  those  who  would  restore  it  to  what 
it  had  once  been, —  a  home,  second  to  none,  in  their 
eyes,  in  all  the  broad  lands  of  England. 

Ill 

The  work  began.     Where  had  the  money  come  from? 

It  was  good  to  see  the  house  aroused  from  its  in- 
glorious sleep.  A  host  of  workmen  was  busy  about  the 
structure;  others  were  indoors,  painting,  papering, 
cleaning,  restoring;  others  trimming  up  the  neglected 


18  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

gardens,  and  remaking  the  road  through  the  park,  along 
which  the  royal  visitor  would  drive,  once  when  he  came, 
once  when  he  went  away. 

Young  Thomas  watched  it  all,  established  relations 
with  the  contractors,  and  acquired  information.  Al- 
though what  work  was  being  done  was  being  well  done, 
as  all  such  work  was  in  those  days,  the  restoration  was 
none  the  less  being  scamped  —  by  order.  Nothing  was 
being  done  to  the  great  expanse  of  roof,  which  needed 
a  great  deal  doing  to  it;  nothing  was  being  done  any- 
where that  would  not  make  a  show.  All  this  money 
was  being  spent  so  that  the  house  should  look  as  if  it 
were  in  perfect  repair  —  for  one  day  and  one  night. 
What  should  happen  to  it  after  that  wouldn't  matter. 

It  was  an  indignity.  Kencote  was  being  turned  into 
a  sham  and  a  fraud. 

Money  was  being  paid  regularly ;  the  work  would  not 
have  been  undertaken  otherwise.  They  knew  the  Beau, 
at  Bathgate,  where  the  workmen  came  from.  That 
was  made  plain  to  young  Thomas,  who  hid  his  chagrin, 
but  vowed  that  they  should  come  to  know  him  under  a 
very  different  aspect  when  he  should  stand  where  the 
Beau  stood  now. 

The  woods  were  untouched.  Nothing  more  had  been 
seen  or  heard  of  the  valuer,  who  had  not  completed 
half  his  work  when  he  had  been  driven  out,  in  the  way 
that  had  so  puzzled  the  Rector.  Neither  he  nor  young 
Thomas  believed  that  any  deal  in  standing  timber  could 
have  been  put  through;  and  the  Merchant's  lawyers 
had  been  busy.     The  woods  were  safe. 

But  the  Beau  had  got  money  somehow,  and  was  once 
more  spending  in  London  on  his  old  scale.  That  he 
was  in  funds,  for  however  short  a  time,  meant  mis- 
chief of  some  sort   to  Kencote,  since   Kencote   was   all 


KENCOTE  19 

he  had  on  which  to  raise  it ;  and  those  who  came  after 
him  would  have  to  foot  the  bill,  sooner  or  later. 

The  Merchant  was  inclined  to  regret  that  he  had  not 
footed  it  promptly.  The  necessary  work  could  have 
been  done  under  his  own  eyes,  and  in  such  a  way  that 
it  would  not  have  to  be  done  all  over  again  by  and  by ; 
and  the  Beau  would  not  have  been  gaming  at  White's  and 
Brooks's,  as  rumour  reported  him  once  more  to  be  do- 
ing. 

The  Merchant  chafed  more  and  more  as  the  days 
went  by,  the  date  of  the  royal  visit  drew  nearer,  and 
the  post  brought  no  news  from  Kencote  to  clear  up  the 
mystery. 

IV 

The  days  went  by.  The  Prince  had  set  out  upon  his 
tour,  accompanied  by  various  of  his  friends,  among 
whom  was  Beau  Clinton.  He  was  due  at  Kencote  on 
a  Friday  evening,  but  the  date  of  none  of  his  visits  was 
quite  certain,  as  he  was  likely  to  linger  in  a  house  that 
suited  him,  and  might  cut  out  one  here  and  there  en- 
tirely. He  was  going  as  a  private  gentleman,  and  was 
not  to  be  hampered  by  arrangements  cut  and  dried. 

On  Wednesday  evening  the  Merchant  had  been  drink- 
ing tea  in  his  wife's  parlour.  Giles  was  away  at  Ox- 
ford, John  at  school.  Only  little  Betty  was  with  her 
parents,  sitting  on  a  stool  by  her  father's  chair,  read- 
ing in  a  book.  He  liked  to  have  her  by  him,  though  he 
often  sat  silent  for  a  long  time  together,  busy  with 
his  thoughts,  which  his  wife  and  daughter  had  both 
been  taught  not  to  interrupt  by  intemperate  chatter. 
He  sat  silent  now,  gazing  into  the  fire,  his  hand  some- 
times caressing  the  child's  fair  head.  Mrs.  Clinton 
plied  a  busy  needle,  and  sometimes  looked  up  fondly  at 


20  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

her  little  daughter,  and  then  questioning^  at  her  hus- 
band'*  grave    face.     She   knew   what    was    now    inces- 

santlv  on  his  mind,  but  she  could  not  help  him  in  it. 
She  could  only  keep  quiet  and  wait  for  what  was  to 
come. 

Upon  this  peaceful  scene,  broke  in  Thomas.  He  was 
Bplashed  with  mud  from  head  to  foot,  but  looked  splen- 
didly Btrong  and  virile,  as  he  stood  before  his  parents, 
with  all  trace  of  his  illness  gone  from  him. 

"  The  Prince  arrives  at  Kencote  this  evening,"  he 
said.  "  His  visit  has  been  put  forward  two  days.  It 
was  only  known  this  morning  that  he  was  coming  so 
soon." 

Thomas  had  ridden  all  the  way  from  Kencote  to  Lon- 
don, a  hundred  and  thirty  miles,  with  only  two  changes 
of  horses,  and  no  rest.  His  mother  would  have  him 
eat  and  drink,  and  went  out  of  the  room  with  the  child 
while  he  told  his  father  the  news,  still  standing. 

"  I  know  now,"  he  said,  "  where  the  money  has  come 
from.  The  valuation  of  timber  was  a  blind  to  put  us 
off  the  scent.  He  has  sold  everything  in  the  house 
for  three  thousand  pounds.  It  is  to  be  stripped  di- 
rectly the  Prince  has  paid  his  visit,  and  left  it." 

The  Merchant  sprang  from  his  seat,  his  eyes  flash- 
ing. "  He  would  never  commit  such  an  outrage!"  he 
cried,  hut  knew  as  he  said  it  that  it  was  true. 

Most  of  what  the  old  house  had  contained  in  the 
way  of  heirlooms  had  been  destroyed  in  the  fire,  but  the 
Clinton  who  had  rebuilt  it  had  been  a  rich  man,  and  had 
furnished  it  richly.  Family  pictures,  and  other  treas- 
on -s,  had  been  added  durinf  *1,n  last  hundred  years, 
which  were  of  value  and  interest  to  the  Clintons  who 
should  inherit  it,  but.  of  small  value  to  anybody  else. 
Three   thousand  pounds  was  a  preposterous  price  in 


KENCOTE  21 

any  case  for  the  contents  of  such  a  house,  but  it  did 
not  represent  a  quarter  of  their  value  to  a  member  of 
the  family. 

Why  had  this  outrage  not  been  guarded  against? 
And  why  had  no  suspicion  crossed  the  minds  of  any  of 
them  that  this  was  the  source  from  which  the  Beau's 
funds  had  come?  Partly  because  their  minds  had  been 
running  on  the  Kencote  timber,  directed  thereto  by  the 
trickery  of  the  Beau  himself;  but  chiefly  because,  cyn- 
ically selfish  as  he  was,  he  was  yet  a  Clinton,  and  it 
would  have  seemed  incredible  that  he  should  deal  such 
a  blow  to  the  honour  of  his  house. 

But  he  had  done  it.  The  Merchant  very  quickly 
recovered  his  outraged  astonishment.  The  situation 
must  be  faced ;  and  perhaps  there  was  yet  time  to  re- 
cover the  final  loss.  "  He  cannot  sell  the  heirlooms," 
he  said  shortly.  "  The  rest  is  his,  but  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  disengage  it.  We  may  be  able  to  upset  the  sale. 
How  did  you  know  of  it?  " 

"  All  that  will  keep,  sir,"  said  Thomas.  "  There  is  no 
doubt  about  the  facts.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  set  out 
for  Kencote  now,  at  once." 

He  had  remained  standing.  He  spoke  quickly,  but 
with  great  determination.  His  father,  active  although 
deliberate  in  mind,  was  yet  declining  to  the  bodily  in- 
ertness of  middle  age,  which  was  enhanced  by  the  se- 
dentary life  he  had  led  for  many  years.  But  he  re- 
sponded now  to  the  young  man's  quickening.  "  What 
to  do  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  to  confront  my  uncle  before  the  Prince  him- 
self, if  necessary.  You  will  catch  him  at  a  disad- 
vantage. Besides,  the  matter  is  very  pressing.  The 
moment  the  Prince  goes  out  of  the  house  the  people 
who  have  bought  the  contents  of  it  have  a  right  to 


JOB  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

step  in  and  carry  them  off.  I  would  have  you  start  at 
once,  sir,  within  the  hour.  You  can  post,  and  be  at 
Kencote  before  the  Prince  leaves  for  Kemsale.  If  he 
has  already  left,  you  can  follow  him  there.  My  uncle 
goes  with  him  to  my  Lord  Meadshire's.  I  will  come 
with  you,  if  you  give  your  leave." 

,%  I  will  go,  Thomas,"  said  his  father,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation.  "But  you  cannot  do  the  journey 
again  within  an  hour  of  your  having  ridden  here." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "  I  would  go  twice  as  far 
for  the  chance  of  saving  our  house,"  he  said.  "  A  lit- 
tle meat  and  wine  while  you  prepare  yourself,  and  I 
shall  be  ready  when  you  are." 

An  hour  later  father  and  son  were  in  a  post  chaise, 
on  the  road  to  Bathgate. 


The  travellers  reached  Bathgate  at  seven  o'clock  in 
the  evening  of  the  following  day,  and  on  horseback. 
They  had  escaped  the  perils  of  highwaymen,  but  those 
were  about  the  only  vicissitudes  contingent  to  such  a 
journey  that  the}'  had  escaped.  Much  rain  had  fallen, 
and  once  off  the  great  trunk  roads  the  going  was  ex- 
ecrable. Here  and  there  they  had  difficulties  in  get- 
ting relays  of  horses,  and  time  was  wasted.  One  of  the 
postboys  was  drunk,  and  took  them  off  the  road  in  the 
darkness.  Thomas,  when  he  found  it  out,  pushed  him 
off  the  saddle  and  left  him  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
while  lie  made  his  own  way  back.  Two  hours  were  lost 
over  this.  When  day  dawned  they  had  not  gone  much 
more  than  forty  miles,  and  there  were  ninety  more  to 
go.  But  their  troubles  were  not  ended.  A  wheel  came 
off  as  they  were  crossing  the  high  lonely  downs  which 


KENCOTE  23 

border  the  county  of  Meadshire,  and  they  were  landed 
in  a  ditch,  both  horses  being  lamed  in  the  ensuing  me- 
lee. The  travellers  had  to  walk  six  miles  to  the  next 
posting-house,  and  there  they  took  horse  and  rode  the 
rest  of  the  way. 

The  Merchant  was  tired  out  when  they  reached  Bath- 
gate, but  his  strong  spirit  upheld  him.  Thomas  seemed 
as  fresh  as  when  he  had  started,  and  was  very  tender  to 
his  father,  sparing  him  all  that  he  could,  but  always 
pressing  on.  The  Merchant  could  not  have  done  the 
journey  without  him.  They  rode  up  to  the  inn  at  seven 
o'clock,  and  ordered  a  chaise  to  take  them  to  Kencote. 
They  could  not  hear  whether  the  Prince  and  his  party 
had  proceeded  to  Kemsale,  which  lay  on  the  other  side 
of  Kencote.  They  ate  and  drank  hurriedly  while  the 
chaise  was  being  prepared.  "  If  they  have  left  Ken- 
cote by  the  time  we  get  there,"  said  Thomas,  looking 
at  his  father,  "  we  must  rest,  and  follow  them  tomor- 
row." 

The  Merchant  was  already  refreshed.  "  They  must 
have  left,"  he  said.     "  But  we  will  follow  them  tonight." 

The  five  miles  that  lay  between  Bathgate  and  Kencote 
were  soon  covered.  Thomas  slept  soundly  until  they 
reached  the  village.  His  father  sat  thinking.  He  must 
keep  his  wits  about  him  for  what  was  to  come. 

There  were  lights  in  doors  and  windows  of  the  cot- 
tages, and  a  group  of  villagers  hanging  about  the  en- 
trance gates.  Then  the  Prince  had  not  left  yet.  The 
chaise  was  stopped  and  the  question  asked.  He  was  to 
have  gone  two  hours  before,  but  no  signs  of  departure 
had  yet  become  apparent. 

They  drove  through  the  gates,  along  the  newly  made 
road  through  the  park,  and  into  the  great  stable-yard. 
It  was  full  of  bustle  —  carriages  standing  there,  some 


£4  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

of  them  already  horsed,  men  running  to  and  fro 
with  lanterns  and  lights  everywhere.  A  groom  told 
them  that  no  orders  lor  departure  had  come  out  yet, 
though  they  were  expecting  them  at  any  time. 

Thty  entered  the  house  by  a  door  at  the  back.  The 
Merchant  meant  to  walk  straight  into  whatever  room 
his  brother  was  in,  and  no  doubt  his  royal  guest  with 
him.  He  and  Thomas  were  plastered  with  mud,  their 
clothes  and  hair  in  disorder,  their  faces  unwashed  and 
unshaven  —  hardly  figures  to  appear  before  Royalty. 
But  as  they  strode  along  the  echoing  stone  corridors, 
there  was  a  dignity  and  authority  about  them  that  pre- 
vented any  of  the  servants  whom  they  met  from  stopping 
them.  The  back  regions  of  the  house  seemed  to  be  full 
of  servants;  they  stared,  hesitated,  and  let  them  pass. 

They  came  through  a  door  into  the  great  square  hall 
of  the  house.  The  black  and  white  marble  pavement 
was  partly  covered  with  a  fine  new  Turkey  carpet ;  the 
carvings  and  panels  of  the  woodwork  had  been  re- 
painted, the  frames  of  the  pictures  regilded.  This 
work,  at  least,  was  good,  and  permanent,  but  it  had 
already  served  its  turn.  Tomorrow,  only  the  bare  walls 
Were  to  be  left,  if  the  Beau  had  his  way. 

All  round  the  hall  were  tall  pedimented  doorways, 
flaming  solid  mahogany  doors.  The  Merchant  strode 
towards  the  one  that  opened  into  the  dining-room,  his 
son  following  him.  A  lackey  in  a  laced  coat  came  run- 
ning up  to  stop  him,  but  he  pushed  him  aside,  and  both 
of  them  went  into  the  room,  shutting  the  door  in  his 
face. 

VI 

Although  the  room  was  very  large,  and  was  lit  only 
by  wax  tapers,  there  were  so  many  of  them  that  the 


KENCOTE  25 

effect  was  at  first  dazzling.  A  group  of  men  sat  and 
stood  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table,  on  which  was  a 
great  show  of  silver  plate,  with  piled-up  fruits,  decanters 
of  wine,  and  branched  candlesticks,  whose  lights  were 
reflected  in  the  dark  polished  mahogany. 

The  Prince  sat  in  the  place  of  honour,  a  stout  be- 
wigged  figure  in  black,  his  neck  tightly  swathed  in 
voluminous  folds  of  cambric,  his  round  face  swelling 
up  out  of  it  like  a  great  over-blown  flower.  The  Beau 
sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  half-facing  him.  These 
two  were  the  centre  of  the  group.  The  Beau  was  shak- 
ing a  dice-box,  and  looked  up  to  see  his  brother  and 
nephew  standing  there  as  the  dice  fell  on  the  table. 

In  the  confusion  that  followed  —  the  Beau  expressing 
outraged  horror,  some  of  the  others  moving  to  prevent 
the  disordered  mud-splashed  figures  from  approaching 
the  august  presence,  the  Prince  staring  in  surprise,  not 
unmixed  with  alarm  —  the  Merchant's  thoughts  cleared, 
and  he  knew  what  he  wanted  to  do. 

He  advanced  a  few  paces  into  the  room,  and  made  a 
low  bow.  "  Your  Royal  Highness,"  he  said  in  a  clear 
voice.  "  I  and  my  son  have  ridden  from  London  to  ask 
justice  of  you  against  my  brother,  Richard  Clinton, 
who  has  served  me  a  vile  trick  under  the  shelter  of  your 
Royal  Highness's  name." 

The  Beau  was  in  a  fury.  He  spluttered  his  anger  at 
his  brother's  daring  to  enter  the  royal  presence  in  such 
a  state,  and  made  towards  the  bell,  to  summon  servants 
to  turn  him  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house. 

The  Merchant  stood  his  ground.  "  With  the  utmost 
respect,"  he  said,  "  I  ask  your  Royal  Highness  to  hear 
me,  and  judge  between  my  brother  and  me." 

The  Prince  had  recovered  his  equanimity.  It  tickled 
his  vanity  to  be  appealed  to  in  this  way.     He  stirred 


26  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

his  large  body  in  his  chair,  and  held  up  a  plump  hand 
covered  with  rings  to  the  Beau,  who  had  reached  the 
boll-pull  by  the  mantel-piece. 

"  Wait  a  while,"  he  said.  "Let  us  hear  what  your 
good  brother  has  against  you,  Dick.  I  have  always 
known  you  were  a  proper  rascal,  and  I  should  like  the 
opinion  of  a  member  of  your  family  upon  the  subject. 
Your  name  and  condition,  sir,  as  a  preliminary  to  the 
rale." 

"  My  name  is  John  Clinton,  sir.  I  am  a  merchant  in 
the  city  of  London,  but  I  am  also  descended  of  the 
family  that  has  been  seated  on  this  Manor  of  Kencote 
for  five  hundred  years,  and  heir  presumptive  to  its 
estates.  They  were  granted  by  your  Royal  Highness's 
great  ancestor,  Edward  I.  The  founder  of  our  house 
was  knighted  by  the  King  on  the  field  of  Falkirk,  and 
Kencote  has  descended  in  the  direct  line  ever  since." 

"  A  very  respectable  pedigree,"  said  the  Prince,  prob- 
ably not  ill-pleased  to  be  reminded  of  his  own  somewhat 
zig-zag  descent  from  the  great  Kings  of  England.  "  A 
better  one  than  yours  by  some  centuries,  I  think, 
George." 

He  turned  towards  a  young  man,  not  much  older  than 
Thomas,  who  stood  by  his  elbow,  dressed  very  soberly 
but  very  exquisitely,  with  a  supercilious  look  on  his  face. 
He  showed  no  sign  of  confusion  at  being  addressed  in 
this  way,  or  at  the  laughter  of  his  companions.  "  The 
name  of  Brummell  is  what  I  have  made  it,"  he  said.  "  I 
owe  nothing  to  my  ancestors,  or  to  anybody  else." 

Considering  that  the  Prince's  favour  had  launched 
him  on  his  career  of  fashion,  this  was  pretty  pointed; 
but  he  and  his  royal  patron  had  already  begun  to  fall 
out,  and  this  was  actually  the  last  time  that  he  was  to 
appear  in  his  most  intimate  circle. 


KENCOTE  n 

The  Prince  took  ho  notice  of  his  speech.  "  Your  long 
descent  has  already  been  brought  to  my  notice,  Mr. 
Clinton,"  he  said,  "  and  when  you  came  in  we  were  at 
the  point  of  discussing  whether  it  would  not  be  fittingly 
graced  with  some  mark  of  honour." 

The  Merchant's  eye  fell  upon  the  dice  lying  on  the 
table  at  his  elbow.  The  Beau,  who  still  held  the  dice- 
box  in  his  hand,  intervened.  "  I  can  assure  you,  sir," 
he  said,  "  that  the  little  matter  of  dispute  between  my 
brother  and  myself  is  not  worthy  of  your  attention. 
Let  us  continue  our  —  discussion." 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  this.  "  He  is  within 
three  throws  of  his  Earldom,"  said  a  handsome  dissi- 
pated-looking man  on  the  Prince's  right.  "  I  suggest 
that  if  he  wins  it,  his  patent  shall  be  made  out  to  include 
his  brother,  the  citizen,  who  looks  far  more  capable  of 
continuing  his  honourable  line  than  he  does  himself." 

The  company  began  to  talk  and  laugh  among  them- 
selves at  this,  but  the  Prince  seemed  anxious  to  preserve 
the  air  of  dignity  with  which  he  had  begun.  "  We  will 
first  hear  what  the  worthy  citizen  has  to  say  against  the 
unworthy  Beau,"  he  said.  "  Before  you  unfold  your 
tale,  Mr.  Clinton,  you  will  be  better  for  a  glass  of  wine 
—  you  and  your  son  too.     Please  drink  it  sitting." 

He  motioned  him  towards  a  chair,  and  a  fair-haired 
young  man,  with  a  pleasant  expression  of  face,  hastened 
to  pour  out  two  glasses  of  wine  for  them. 

The  Merchant,  deeply  angered  at  what  had  been 
going  on  when  he  entered  the  room,  but  hiding  his  anger, 
stood  his  ground.  "  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  your  Royal 
Highness's  condescension,"  he  said.  "  But  I  come  here 
as  a  plain  man  to  plead  my  cause,  not  to  intrude  myself 
into  the  company  of  my  betters.  Whatever  rank  we 
Clintons  may  have  held  in  the  past,  we  have  lived  for 


28  THE  CLINTON-.  AND  OTHERS 

sonic  generations  as  quiet  country  gentlemen,  not  as 
nun  and  women  of  fashion.  We  have  done  our  best 
for  our  tenantry,  anil  we  have  loved  our  home.  Mv 
brother  has  done  neither,  and  now,  as  a  last  injury  to 
unify,  be  has  taken  upon  himself  to  sell  everything 
that  this  house  contains.  The  very  chair  upon  which 
your  Royal  Highness  is  Bitting,  the  bed  upon  which  you 
have  slept,  the  glass  from  which  you  drink,  with  every- 
thing else,  have  been  turned  into  money  to  jingle  in  his 
pockets." 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter.  "  So  that's  where 
you  get  your  funds,  Dick  !  "  said  the  man  on  the  Prince's 
right.  "  His  goods  and  chattels  against  an  earldom 
that  he'll  have  nothing  to  support!"  said  another. 
'*  What  a  rovstering  blade  it  is  !  " 

The  Prince  laughed  with  the  rest.  The  Beau  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  and  plunged  his  hands  into  his 
breeches  pockets.  "  Tis  true,"  he  said  with  an  air  of 
indifference,  "  and  'tis  nothing.  I  would  have  bartered 
my  barrack  of  a  house  itself  for  a  visit  from  his  Royal 
Highness.  It  shames  me  not  at  all.  What  does  shame 
me  is  that  this  pettifogging  tradesman  who  calls  himself 
my  brother  should  have  obtruded  himself  into  his  Royal 
Highness's  presence  to  flourish  the  bill  in  his  face.  He 
can  think  of  nothing  but  the  bill ;  but  it  is  not  for  his 
paying,  and  it  is  an  outrage  that  he  should  mention  it 
in  this  company." 

The  Prince  looked  uncomfortable.  He  must  have 
known  that  his  friend,  the  Beau,  could  not  afford  to 
entertain  him  at  all,  and  it  could  not  have  been  pleasant 
to  him  to  have  the  cost  of  his  entertainment  brought 
before  him.      It  was  a  shrewd  stroke  on  the  Beau's  part. 

The  handsome  young  man  who  had  poured  out  the 
nine  leaned  forward  and  looked  from  one  brother  to  the 


KENCOTE  29 

other,  as  if  to  lose  nothing  of  the  duel  that  was  being 
fought  between  them.  Thomas,  avIio  had  stood  as  if 
on  parade  slightly  behind  his  father,  had  had  his  eye 
on  this  young  man  ever  since  he  had  been  in  the  room. 
With  his  look  of  health  and  activity  he  did  not  seem  to 
belong  to  this  company,  which,  with  the  exception  of 
the  posturing  Brummell,  was  made  up  of  men  of  middle- 
age,  nearly  all  of  them  of  dissipated  appearance,  and 
some  of  them  not  as  sober  as  they  might  have  been. 

"  Begging  your  pardon,"  said  the  Merchant,  "  the 
bill  mill  be  footed  by  me  sooner  or  later,  as  you  very  well 
know.  And  I  do  not  grudge  it.  It  was  not  for  that 
purpose  that  I  — " 

"  You  did  grudge  it,"  interrupted  the  Beau,  without 
looking  at  him.  "  You  are  a  rich  man,  and  I  came  to 
you  for  a  loan  of  the  wretched  sum  that  was  necessary 
to  make  my  poor  house  fit  for  the  honour  that  was  to 
be  conferred  on  it.  You  thought  nothing  about  the 
honour,  and  refused  me.  If  you  have  come  all  the  way 
from  London  to  tell  his  Royal  Highness  that,  I  think 
you  had  better  have  stuck  to  your  office  stool.  What  I 
have  sold  is  mine  to  sell,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you." 

The  Prince's  bilious  looking  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
Merchant  with  no  great  favour.  "  If  this  is  true,  Mr. 
Clinton,"  he  said,  "  my  inclinations  are  somewhat  to- 
wards my  friend  who  has  entertained  me  so  handsomely, 
and  made  no  bother  on  it,  rather  than  towards  one  who 
thought  a  visit  from  me  of  small  account." 

"  He  has  stuck  to  his  desk  and  made  money,"  added 
the  Beau,  pursuing  his  advantage.  "  I  have  spent  mine 
in  the  best  of  company,  and  I  don't  grudge  a  farthing 
of  it.  Tell  him  to  go  back  to  his  shop,  sir,  and  worry 
us  no  longer." 


30  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"What  Lb  it  that  you  want  of  me,  Mr.  Clinton?" 
asked  the  Prince. 

The  Merchant  glanced  round  upon  the  company. 
The  faces  of  most  of  them  showed  amusement  at  the 
awkward  position  in  which  he  stood,  and  some  showed 
contempt.  Only  the  handsome  young  man  looked  at 
him  with  sympathy. 

"  I  will  not  deny  that  I  refused,"  he  said  boldly. 
"  For  five  and  twenty  years  this  house  of  Kencote  has 
been  neglected,  and  the  land  that  goes  with  it  starved. 
Five  and  twenty  j'ears  ago  it  was  a  house  that  a  royal 
Prince  might  well  have  taken  a  pleasure  in  visiting.  It 
is  so  no  longer,  and  I  would  not  support  my  brother  in 
giving  it  a  false  air,  for  a  few  hours  only." 

"  A  careful  man,  this,"  observed  Brummell,  looking 
at  him  and  Thomas  through  his  quizzing-glass.  "  And 
he's  brought  his  groom  with  him  to  protect  his  money 
bags  on  the  journey.  But  why  should  the  groom  be 
introduced  into  this  company?  " 

It  was  perhaps  Thomas's  cold  glances  of  contempt 
that  had  aroused  him  to  this  wanton  and  foolish  attack. 
For  Thomas  had  also  been  making  comparisons. 
Brummell  and  the  fair  young  man  were  the  only  mem- 
bers of  the  company  of  about  his  own  age.  The  one 
he  admired  for  his  fresh  and  open  expression  and  his 
look  of  health  and  activity.  The  other,  of  whom  he 
had  heard  something,  and  liked  nothing  that  he  had 
heard,  seemed  to  him,  who  had  already  done  something 
in  the  world,  to  be  nothing  but  an  idle  conceited  fop  and 
lickspittle,  aping  a  superiority  to  which  neither  birth 
nor  achievement  entitled  him. 

"  I  am  not  a  groom,"  he  said  quietly,  looking  Brum- 
mell straight  in  the  face,  "  though  'tis  true  that  I  can 
stick  on  a  horse." 


KENCOTE  31 

As  Brummell  was  known  to  have  fallen  off  one,  during 
his  short  career  as  a  cavalry  officer,  and  broken  his  nose 
by  it,  this  stroke  was  well  received  by  the  company,  and 
especially  by  the  Prince.  But  the  Merchant  turned  to 
his  son  and  told  him  to  be  silent,  and  the  Prince  frowned 
again.  "What  is  it  you  want  of  me?"  he  asked, 
shortly.  "  You  have  admitted  that  you  did  not  want 
my  presence  here.     We  need  have  no  more  of  that." 

The  Merchant  paused  a  moment.  "  A  hundred  years 
ago,"  he  said,  "  the  house  that  stands  where  this  house 
now  stands  was  burnt  down,  and  the  Clintons  suffered 
the  loss  of  nearly  all  that  it  contained.  The  house  was 
rebuilt  and  refurnished ;  for  four  generations  we  have 
enjoyed  it.  Now  comes  my  brother  —  a  scourge  as 
destructive  as  the  fire  —  to  despoil  us  again.  A  word 
from  your  Royal  Highness  would  stop  the  wicked  deed. 
It  is  not  too  late.  There  must  be  irregularities ;  there 
are  things  here  that  he  has  no  right  to  sell.  I  will  repay 
the  money  that  has  already  been  handed  over.  I  will 
relieve  him  of  the  responsibilities  that  he  makes  so  light 
of.  I  will  pay  him  an  annuity  as  long  as  he  lives.  Tell 
him,  sir,  to  make  Kencote  over  to  me,  and  cease  from 
troubling  it  further." 

"  That  I  will  not  do,"  put  in  the  Beau.  "  It  has 
been  suggested  to  me  before.  As  long  as  I  live  I  will 
be  Clinton  of  Kencote." 

"  Or  Earl  of  Kencote,"  put  in  the  man  on  the  Prince's 
right.  "  Throw  the  Merchant  and  his  son  into  the 
succession,  sir,  and  let  him  settle  for  his  goods  and 
chattels  afterwards." 

The  Prince  laughed  and  bestirred  himself.  "  It  is 
your  throw,"  he  said  to  the  Beau.  "  We  will  finish  our 
own  business  and  then  turn  to  your  brother's.  Mr. 
Clinton,  you  are  concerned  in  this  little  affair.     I  ac- 


32  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

cept  the  suggestion  made  to  me  on  3'our  behalf,  and  of 
your  son,  who  can  ride  a  horse." 

The  Beau  aroused  himself  and  shook  the  dice-box. 
The  Merchant  took  a  step  forward;  his  face  was  red 
and  his  eyes  flashed.  "  It  is  a  disgraceful  compact," 
he  said  loudly.  "  I  will  publish  it  to  the  world  —  our 
good  King  beset  by  England's  enemies,  and  his  son 
shaking  dice,  for  money  against  honour !  " 

The  company  sprang  to  their  feet,  all  except  the 
Prince,  who  stared  at  the  Merchant's  angry  face  —  his 
own  also  angered,  scandalized  and  alarmed. 

"  As  for  you,"  said  the  Merchant,  through  the 
hubbub,  to  his  brother,  "  I  shall  appeal  to  the  law.  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  you  have  overstepped  it." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  room,  showing  a 
full  broad  back  to  his  future  sovereign.  Thomas  fol- 
lowed him,  after  a  glance  at  his  enemy,  who  had  kept  a 
lofty  air  of  indifference  throughout  the  foregoing  scene. 

A  group  of  servants  had  gathered  in  tlie  hall ;  one  of 
them,  who  had  probably  had  his  eye  or  ear  to  the  key- 
hole, was  nearly  knocked  over  by  the  Merchant  as  he 
came  out  of  the  room.  He  pushed  them  angrily  aside, 
and  strode  across  the  hall,  his  spurs  clanking. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  door  by  which  he  had 
entered  it,  the  fair-haired  young  man,  who  had  followed 
them  out  of  the  room,  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Mr.  Clinton,"  he  said.  "  I  am  Humphrey  Kemsale, 
and  very  much  at  your  service.  Let  us  see  this  business 
through  together." 

The  Merchant,  who  had  exclaimed  angrily  at  the 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  stood  still  and  looked  at  him,  his 
face  clearing  a  little  as  his  eyes  met  the  frank  friendly 
look  of  the  young  man.  Lord  Kemsale  was  the  eldest 
son  of  the  Marquis  of  Meadshire,  and  the  two  houses  of 


KENCOTE  33 

Kemsale  and  Kencote  had  been  allies  for  generations, 
though  of  late  one  had  stood  high  and  the  other  had 
deteriorated  in  dignity. 

"  I  was  sent  by  my  father  to  convoy  the  Prince  to 
Kemsale,"  said  the  young  man,  "  where  they  will  have 
been  awaiting  him  these  two  hours  past.  It  was  Lord 
Beechmont  who  suggested  this  throwing  of  dice  after 
dinner.  I  think  it  may  serve  your  turn,  if  you  will 
wait  awhile." 

The  Merchant's  face  grew  dark  again.  "  So  that 
was  my  Lord  Beechmont !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  whose  family 
is  also  allied  to  mine,  but  who  could  do  nothing  but 
sneer  at  my  condition  of  citizen.  As  for  serving  my 
turn,  my  lord,  I  promise  you  that  it  shall  serve  the  turn 
neither  of  the  Prince  nor  my  brother.  When  they  get 
back  to  London  they  shall  find  the  town  ringing  with  the 
story." 

"  They  will  dread  that,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a 
clear  laugh.  "  Do  you  wait  in  this  room,  Mr.  Clinton, 
and  let  me  go  back  and  deal  with  the  matter  on  your 
behalf." 

He  was  full  of  life  and  energy,  and  seemed  to  enjoy 
the  idea  of  having  his  finger  in  the  pie.  He  opened  the 
door  of  a  room  brightly  lit  up,  but  unoccupied,  and 
with  a  quick  friendly  glance  and  smile  at  Thomas  went 
back  to  the  dining-room. 

The  room  which  they  entered  was  that  which  the 
Merchant's  mother  had  chiefly  used,  in  the  happy  days 
of  his  childhood.  It  was  full  of  little  things  that  re- 
minded him  of  her  —  the  spinet  open  which  she  had 
played  for  her  children  to  sing  to,  her  embroidery  frame, 
her  books  and  materials  for  writing,  the  chair  and  the 
sofa  upon  which  she  had  sat.  On  the  walls  were  many 
drawings  and  miniatures  of  her  family,  besides  older 


34  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

pictures  of  greater  value.  All  these  things  his  brother 
—  a  portrait  of  whom  as  a  child  hung  in  a  place  of 
honour  —  had  sold. 

He  could  hardly  hold  himself  in  patience,  and  came 
near  to  choking  as  his  eye  fell  first  upon  one  thing  and 
then  upon  another  that  brought  back  memories.  "  He 
shall  not  do  it,"  he  cried,  with  his  hands  clenched. 

"  I  think  he  will  not  do  it,"  said  Thomas.  "  I  have 
great  faith  in  Lord  Kemsale." 

"  He  is  kin  to  us,"  said  his  father,  "  though  he  may 
not  know  it.  We  have  come  low  in  the  world,  and  never 
lower  than  now,  when  the  head  of  our  house  thinks  him- 
self so  highly  distinguished."  He  swore  a  round  oath 
at  the  Beau.  "  Why  did  I  come  before  the  Prince  as  a 
suitor?  "  he  said  angrily.  "  His  word  might  have  been 
given  to  stop  this  robbery,  and  he  has  not  given  it.  He 
has  shown  offence  instead." 

"  We  need  care  little  enough  for  that,"  said  Thomas. 
"  Neither  you  nor  I  would  care  to  take  the  road  that 
leads  to  his  favour." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  it,"  said  the  merchant.  "  Much 
more  offence  will  be  shown  when  I  publish  my  story. 
And  I  care  not  for  that  either." 

In  a  short  time  Lord  Kemsale  came  back.  He  looked 
both  triumphant  and  amused.  "  It  has  gone  our  waj'," 
he  said.  "  Come,  Mr.  Clinton.  If  I  might  advise,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Thomas,  "  you  had  better  stay  here. 
We  shall  see  each  other  again,  I  hope  —  often." 

The  Merchant  followed  him  into  the  dining-room. 
The  compan}7  was  seated,  and  had  something  of  the  air 
of  a  judicial  assembly,  with  the  Prince  at  its  head. 
There  were  no  signs  of  the  dice-box.  The  Beau  sat  in 
the  same  careless  attitude  as  before,  but  he  looked  sulky. 


KENCOTE  35 

He  did  not  turn  his  head  as  his  brother  came  into  the 
room. 

"Mr.  Clinton,"  said  the  Prince,  leaning  forward  a 
little,  "  you  seem  to  have  entirely  misunderstood  the 
little  pleasantry  in  which  we  were  engaged  when  you 
came  upon  us.  It  is  now  at  an  end,  and  in  consideration 
of  the  disturbance  of  mind  you  were  undergoing,  I  over- 
look the  somewhat  unusual  manner  in  which  you  behaved 
in  my  presence." 

The  Merchant's  anger  had  not  cooled  during  his  wait, 
but  he  controlled  himself  sufficiently  to  bow  and  say 
nothing. 

"  Your  brother,"  said  the  Prince  with  a  smile,  "  is 
one  of  my  oldest  and  most  intimate  friends ;  but  I  am 
not  altogether  blind  to  his  little  failings.  It  would 
distress  me  to  feel  that  the  hospitality  he  has  offered 
me  has  been  purchased  at  the  expense  of  his  family,  in 
the  way  you  have  brought  to  my  notice.  He  has  con- 
sented, at  my  solicitation,  to  accede  to  the  request  that 
I  understand  you  have  already  made  of  him,  and  he 
has  so  far  refused  to  consider.  He  will  make  over  his 
property  here  to  you ;  the  details  you  can  settle  between 
you.  But  when  we  leave  this  house,  as  we  must  do  now, 
immediately,  we  will  leave  you  in  undisputed  possession. 
May  you  live  long  to  enjoy  it,  and  be  a  better  Squire  of 
Kencote  than  your  brother,  who  is  something  of  a  town- 
lover,  has  ever  been !  " 

The  Merchant's  angry  thoughts  were  shot  through 
with  a  pure  streak  of  joy.  That  he  would  have  to  pay 
heavily  for  succeeding  before  his  time,  was  nothing. 
He  would  willingly  do  that. 

The  Prince  had  turned  towards  the  Beau,  and  was 
laughing  at  him.     The  Beau  rose  slowly  to  his  feet, 


36  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  I  think  it  is  time  we  were  setting  forth,"  he  said, 
languidly.  "  This  house  is  distasteful  to  me,  and  I 
want  to  get  away  from  it  as  quickly  as  possible." 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  as  the  Prince  also  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  the  rest  of  the  company  with  him. 

The  Merchant  stood  aside.  The  Prince  bowed  to 
him  as  he  went  out  of  the  room,  with  a  somewhat  distant 
air.  Although  he  had  brought  about  the  most  desirable 
solution  of  the  difficulties  of  so  many  years,  and  had 
played  his  part  handsomely  at  the  end,  the  Merchant 
understood  that,  as  the  new  Clinton  of  Kencote,  he  must 
be  content  to  remain  outside  the  circle  of  the  royal 
favour.     He  smiled  inwardly  at  the  thought. 

Some  of  the  Prince's  followers  bowed  ironically  to 
him,  his  brother  passed  him  without  a  look  or  a  word. 
Young  Lord  Kemsale  went  last  out  of  the  room.  He 
took  the  Merchant's  hand  and  shook  it  warmly.  "  I 
frightened  them,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  But  you 
might  have  been  Earl  of  Kencote  by  and  by,  Mr. 
Clinton." 

The  Merchant  slept  that  night  in  a  room  in  his 
brother's  rectory.  Before  he  went  to  bed,  he  leaned  out 
of  the  window  and  drew  into  his  nostrils  the  mild  autumn 
air,  sweet  with  blowing  over  the  woods  and  fields  of  the 
peaceful  country.  After  the  rattle  of  the  town,  to 
which  he  had  been  used  for  so  many  years,  the  stillness 
was  almost  palpable.  But  he  was  blissfully  in  tune  with 
it.  His  city  life  dropped  from  him.  He  had  thrown 
himself  into  it  and  enjoyed  it  for  forty  years,  and  more, 
but  he  knew  now  that  it  had  been  nothing  but  a  leading 
up  to  this.  He  was  sprung  from  generations  who  had 
lived  in  this  quiet  happy  corner  of  the  country,  and 
loved  it  from  the  bottom  of  their  hearts.  What  did 
he  want  with  an  earldom?     He  had  Kencote  now,  which 


KENCOTE  37 

he  loved  no  less  than  any  of  them,  and  money  enough 
to  restore  it  to  itself.  The  bad  days  for  Kencote  were 
over.  He  was  no  longer  the  Merchant ;  he  was  the 
Squire. 


THE  TERRORS 


THE  TERRORS 


OF  course  7  think  they're  perfectly  charming," 
said  Lady  Mary — "  I  suppose  because  they  are 
mine  —  and  they  are  certainly  beautiful  to 
look  at.  Oliver  is  rather  like  a  Florentine  duke,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean  —  dark  and  picturesque;  he  takes 
after  his  father.  Priscilla  and  Ruth  are  very  fair,  with 
pimpernel  blue  eyes  and  most  lovely  complexions,  like 
my  family,  but  much  better  looking  than  any  of  us 
ever  were.  I  shall  have  an  immense  amount  of  trouble 
with  them  when  they  grow  up,  but  at  present  they  are 
very  sweet  to  me  —  I  suppose  because  I  let  them  alone. 
I  should  make  a  very  good  character  in  a  book,  and  if 
you  are  thinking  of  writing  one,  Mr.  Abbey,  as  all  clever 
young  men  do  nowadays,  pray  put  me  in." 

This  she  said  with  a  charming  smile.  Although 
rather  inclined  to  stoutness,  she  was  very  good-looking, 
in  the  manner  in  which  she  had  described  her  daughters, 
and  her  smile  made  me  like  her.  I  had  just  left  Cam- 
bridge, and  was  interviewing  her  as  to  a  holiday  tutor- 
ship to  her  three  children. 

"  I  sit  on  a  sofa  a  good  part  of  the  day,"  she  went 
on,  "  and  read  novels.  And  my  talk,  although  not  un- 
intelligent on  occasions,  is  apt  to  be  disjointed.  In  fact, 
I  may  be  said  to  be  a  sort  of  Mrs.  Nickleby  in  high  life, 
and  should  make  the  fortune  of  any  clever  young  novelist 
who  liked  to  study  me.      So,  you  see,  I  am  offering  you  a 

good  thing  in  inviting  you  to  Bargrave,  Mr.  Abbey ;  and 

41 


42  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

if  the  children  take  to  you  —  well,  I  think  you  will  really 
have  a  very  good  time."  Then  she  laughed  not  unmusi- 
cally and  left  me  wondering  whether  she  was  quite  so 
much  like  Mrs.  Nickleby  as  she  had  stated. 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  come,"  I  said,  "  and  I  hope 
the  children  will  take  to  me." 

"  They  ought  to,"  she  said  kindly,  "  but  one  never 
knows.  As  I  told  you,  I  think  personally  that  they  are 
three  of  the  greatest  darlings  in  the  world,  but  there  are 
plenty  of  people  who  consider  them  odious.  In  fact, 
I  should  warn  you  that  in  our  part  of  the  world  they 
go  by  the  name  of  the  Terrors." 

This  was  a  little  disturbing,  and  I  asked  what  par- 
ticular form  their  terrorism  took.  If  it  meant  only 
high  spirits  and  a  general  tendency  to  mischief,  I 
thought  I  could  deal  with  it. 

"  Well,  it  is  not  that  exactly,"  she  said.  "  They're 
rather  like  my  husband  used  to  be  —  funny  and  solemn 
at  the  same  time.  They  take  people  off.  It  is  too  bad, 
but  I  really  can't  help  shaking  with  laughter  when  they 
imitate  the  vicar  —  and  before  his  face,  too.  I  can't 
correct  them.  I  used  to  try,  but  they  knew  they  could 
always  make  me  laugh,  however  vexed  I  was  —  and  I 
never  was  vexed  really  —  so  now  I  have  given  it  up,  and 
it  is  much  more  comfortable  all  round,  except,  of  course, 
for  the  people  who  come  and  look  after  them.  I  ought 
not  to  say  that  to  you,  perhaps,  but  I  feel  I  must  give 
you  fair  warning.  They  have  always  boasted  that  they 
could  get  rid  of  any  one  they  didn't  like  in  a  week,  and 
it  is  perfectly  true.  Mr.  Warner  left  in  four  days,  last 
holidays." 

"  What  had  he  done  to  displease  them?  "  I  asked. 

"  He  sniffed,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  and  he  had 
cultivated  a  clerical  voice ;  he  was  going  to  be  a  clergy- 


THE  TERRORS  43 

man.  That  was  all  the  reason  they  gave  me,  but  it  was 
awkward,  because  they  ran  wild  for  the  rest  of  the  holi- 
days, and  when  they  run  wild  —  well,  they  do  run  wild. 
I  want  you,  if  you  will,  to  read  something  with  all  three 
of  them,  poetry  or  history  —  I  don't  care  what  —  for 
half  an  hour  a  day,  and  make  Oliver  do  his  holiday  task. 
That  is  all,  except  just  to  keep  an  eye  on  them  for  the 
rest  of  the  time,  and  see  that  they  don't  get  into  too 
much  mischief.  You  can  do  it  on  your  head,  as  they 
say,  if  you  make  them  like  you.  They  will  let  you  into  all 
their  little  jokes,  and  make  a  friend  of  you.  They  did 
that  with  Mr.  Mannering,  and  I  wish  he  could  have 
come  this  summer  —  not  that  I'm  sure  you  won't  do  just 
as  well.  He  told  me,  when  he  went,  that  he  had  had  the 
time  of  his  life,  and,  of  course,  Bargrave  is  a  charming 
place,  especially  at  this  time  of  year." 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  be  delightful,"  I  said.  "  How  did 
they  manage  to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Warner  in  four  days?  " 

She  began  to  laugh  again.  "  Oh,  I'm  afraid  they 
were  frightfully  rude.  Whenever  he  sniffed,  they 
sniffed,  in  a  marked  way;  and  they  intoned  all  through 
meal-time.  I  told  them  not  to,  but  they  didn't  take  the 
slightest  notice.  They  never  do.  When  Priscilla 
looked  at  me  out  of  her  limpid,  serious  eyes  and  sang, 
'  Dearly  beloved  mother,  hold  thy  tongue,'  I  exploded. 
That's  what  they  are  like.  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Abbey,  that 
you  mustn't  look  to  me  to  uphold  your  authority.  I'm 
useless.  Poor  Mr.  Warner  thought  that  I  was  laughing 
at  him  —  well,  I  suppose  I  was,  in  a  way  —  and  he  came 
to  me  after  breakfast  and  said  that  his  feelings  were 
hurt,  and  he  thought  he  had  better  go.  But  he  sniffed 
as  he  said  it,  and  I  heard  all  three  of  them  sniffing  in 
chorus  outside  the  door.  So  of  course  I  laughed  again, 
and  that  ended  it.     Well,  good-bye,  Mr.  Abbey.     I'm 


44-  THE  CLINTON--.  AND  OTHERS       • 

glad  it's  till  settled.      I  am  going  down  to  Bargrave  to- 
morrow, and  we  shall  expect  you  on  Friday." 


II 

I  travelled  down  to  Bargrave  on  the  day  appointed. 
I  did  Dot  feel  unduly  depressed  by  what  I  had  heard  of 
my  future  pupils.  Mr.  Warner  had  obviously  been  a 
prig,  if  not  what  I  had  been  accustomed  to  call  a  smug, 
and  he  had  gone  under.  E.  J.  Manner ing  «as  the  Ox- 
ford cricketer,  and  his  athletic  prowess  had  as  obviously 
put  them  at  his  feet.  I  flattered  myself  that  I  was 
much  more  akin  to  Mannering  than  to  Warner.  I  was 
no  cricketer,  but  I  had  been  captain  of  my  college  boat 
club,  and  had  been  tried  for  the  university  crew.  They 
should  know  that.  I  would  be  friendly  but  firm  with 
them.  Their  jokes  should  be  my  jokes,  and  I  would 
join,  in  moderation,  in  any  witticisms  directed  against 
anybody  but  myself,  of  course  checking  anything  like 
ill-nature.  I  would  devote  myself  to  their  pursuits, 
and  win  them  to  liking,  if  not  adoration,  by  my  com- 
panionability.  By  the  time  I  should  have  left  Bargrave 
at  the  end  of  the  holidays  it  would  not  be  my  fault  if 
they  were  not  at  my  feet,  as  they  had  been  at  Man- 
nering's. 

So  I  planned  everything  in  my  folly,  exhibiting  to 
mys<  If,  unaware  of  them,  all  my  little  vanities,  and  not 
anticipating  the  demoniacal  ingenuity  of  the  Terrors  in 
searching  out  the  smallest  point  of  vanity,  however 
hidden,  and  concentrating  on  it  like  midges  on  a  raw 
spot.  It  was  where  their  particular  genius  lay,  as  after- 
wards I  had  opportunities  of  learning. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  auspicious  than  my 
introduction   to   the   three   Terrors.     When   I   arrived, 


THE  TERRORS  45 

they  were  at  tea  with  their  mother  on  the  terrace  over- 
looking those   lovely   gardens    for   which   Bargrave   is 
famous,  with  their  clipped  yews,  fountains  and  figures, 
and  gay  .lowers,  and  their  view  of  distant  blue  hills  and 
woods.     The  Terrors  were  worthy  of  their  setting  —  at 
least    in    appearance  —  and    their    manner    towards    a 
stranger  was  perfection.     The  young  Sir  Oliver,  who 
was  about  fourteen,  with  his  dark  hair  and  lustrous  eyes, 
was  extraordinarily  handsome,  and  the  two  girls,  one 
a  year  older  than  he,  and  one  a  year  younger,  were  a 
joy  to  behold,  they  were  so  fair  and  so  graceful.     If  I 
had  been  a  year  or  two  older,  or  a  year  or  two  younger, 
I  should  certainly  have  fallen  in  love  with  Priscilla ;  but 
at  twenty-two  my  tastes  ran  to  maturity,  and  that  com- 
plication was  spared  me.     I  now  tremble  to  think  of 
what  might  have  happened  if  any  misplaced  tenderness 
had  hampered  my  dealings  with  Priscilla  and  Ruth  when 
the   time   came   to    cope   with   them.     On   my  first   in- 
troduction   I    could    only    think    of    how    well    their 
demure    names    suited     them.     Not     that     they    were 
exactly  demure ;  they  took  their  full  share  in  the  con- 
versation, and  exerted  themselves  to  make  me  feel  at 
home.     Oliver  insisted  upon  taking  my  hat  and  umbrella 
into  the  house.      (That  he  made  a  dint  in  the  one  and 
put  a  handful  of  pebbles  into  the  other  before  he  re- 
turned, I  did  not  find  out  until  later.)      Priscilla  was 
meticulous  in  giving  me  my  tea  just  as  I  liked  it  —  in 
fact,  she  asked  more  questions  about  my  taste  as  to  the 
exact  proportions  of  hot  water,  milk  and  sugar  than  I 
could  very  well  answer  —  and  Ruth  prattled  on  about 
things  in  general  in  a  manner  that  I  felt  was  designed  to 
put  me  entirely  at  my  ease.     It  was  so  designed.     The 
demons  had  to  get  me  to  reveal  myself,  in  order  that  they 
might  choose  their  point  of  attack  before  they  set  to 


46  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

work  on  me;  but  I  had  no  idea  of  their  sweet  purpose 
at  the  time,  and  was  enchanted  with  their  behaviour  and 
with  my  own  obvious  success  in  getting  instantly  on 
good  terms  with  them.  All  thoughts  of  Lady  Mary's 
warnings  had  left  me.  I  did  not  even  remember,  that 
these  beautiful,  friendly  creatures  wen-  commonly-  known 
as  the  Terrors,  and  I  rose  to  their  baits  like  trout  to  the 
May-fly. 

Sometimes  I  think  I  deserved  all  I  afterwards  got. 
I  now  shrink  with  shame  when  I  think  of  my  fatuity  in 
telling  them  that  I  had  "  nearly  "  got  into  the  Cam- 
bridge boat.  They  had  mentioned  Mannering  —  asked 
if  I  played  cricket ;  and  I  had  said  that  I  was  a  wet-bob, 
and  had  gone  on  to  give  particulars  of  my  aquatic 
career,  tending  to  show  that  it  had  been  a  distinguished 
one.  They  drew  me  on  to  further  expatiation  on  my 
drrds  —  oh,  so  sweetly !  —  and  not  a  flicker  of  an  eyelid 
warned  me  of  what  I  was  laying  up  for  myself.  I  did 
not  even  acquire  caution  when  Ruth  said  in  her  cooing 
voice:  "We  are  all  awfully  keen  on  games.  Oliver 
nearly  got  into  the  Eton  eleven  last  half." 

"Did  he?"  I  exclaimed,  regarding  with  increased 
respect  such  a  prodigy  of  a  lower  boy. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  He  would  have  done  if  there 
had  not  been  nine  hundred  other  boys  who  played 
better." 

You  would  have  said  that  this  must  have  brought  me 
to  my  senses ;  but  the  other  two  instantly  jumped  on  her. 
"Don't  be  such  a  fool!"  said  Oliver  disgustedly:  and 
Priscilla  set  me  more  firmly  on  my  feet  than  ever  by  her 
remark  that  that  sort  of  thing  might  have  been  said  to 
Mr.  Warm  r,  but  not  to  Mr.  Abbey.  The  dear  things 
were  not  ready  for  me  yet.     I  had  to  be  thoroughly 


THE  TERRORS  47 

soaked  in  friendliness  and  favour  in  order  that  I  might 
deliver  up  to  them  everything  that,  exposed  at  the  start 
to  derision,  I  might  have  kept  to  myself.  I  had  no  sus- 
picions even  when  Oliver  alluded  to  me  once  or  twice  as 
"  Mr.  Rumsey." 

"  His  name  is  Mr.  Abbey,"  said  Lady  Mary,  when  he 
had  done  so  for  the  third  time.  "  Why  do  you  call  him 
Mr.  Rumsey?" 

"  Haven't  you  ever  heard  of  Romsey  Abbey  ?  "  asked 
Oliver,  with  a  laugh.  "  We  used  to  call  Mr.  Mannering 
*  E.  J.'  It  is  more  friendly  to  have  a  nickname,  if  Mr. 
Abbey  doesn't  mind." 

He  turned  to  me  with  a  charming  smile,  and,  of  course, 
I  said  I  did  not  mind  in  the  least,  showing,  I  suppose, 
quite  obviously,  that  I  was  flattered.  How  could  I  fore- 
see that,  later  on,  when  it  became  necessary  for  me  to 
assert  whatever  dignity  they  left  me,  this  small  con- 
cession would  be  interpreted  as  meaning  that  I  could  not 
reasonably  object  to  being  spoken  to  before  my  face, 
with  all  the  marks  of  derision,  as  "  Old  Rumsey- 
Wumsey." 

Their  delightful  behaviour  lasted  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon  and  evening.  Never  had  I  enjoyed  myself 
more.  They  took  me  all  over  the  lovely  gardens ;  in  a 
boat  on  the  lake,  where  I  became  tutorial  in  the  use  of 
the  oar ;  into  the  stables,  where  they  showed  me  the  horse 
I  was  to  ride  — "  He  bucks  like  winky,  but  you  won't 
mind  that,"  said  Oliver  —  and  admitted  me  into  the  very 
depths  of  their  confidence,  as  I  thought.  I  got  them  to 
"  take  off  "  the  vicar  and  sundry  other  neighbours,  and 
roared  with  laughter  at  their  imitations.  "  You  really 
are  records,"  I  said,  and  added  out  of  my  folly :  "  You 
must  take  me  off  when  you  know  me  better." 


48  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  Oh,  we  never  do  it  with  people  we  really  like,"  said 
Priscilla,  "  and  you  mustn't  let  any  of  those  people  know 
about  it  when  you  see  then).'" 

"Oh,  rather  not,"  I  replied,  and  I  never  did.  But 
they  were  not  so  particular,  for  when,  two  days  later, 
the  curate  called  —  a  nice  but  shy  man,  with  whom  I 
should  have  been  glad  to  make  friends  —  Ruth,  by  way 
of  setting  him  thoroughly  at  ease  with  me,  told  him  that 
Mr.  Abbey  had  said,  if  he  was  anything  like  what  he  had 
pictured  him,  he  should  crack  with  laughter  when  he  met 
him. 

But  the  future  was  mercifully  hidden  from  me  when  I 
told  Lady  Mary,  that  evening,  after  they  had  gone  to 
bed,  that  I  thought  they  were  the  most  delightful  trio  I 
had  ever  come  across  in  the  whole  of  my  experience. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  a  little  doubtfully,  "  if  it  only  lasts! 
Of  course  they  behaved  just  like  that  to  Mr.  Warner  the 
first  day.  They  said  they  wanted  to  see  what  he  was 
made  of." 

Even  that  did  not  dash  my  confidence  in  my  general 
popularity.  Mr.  Warner  and  I  were  poles  removed.  I 
retired  to  bed  exhilarated,  and  anticipating  two  of  the 
pleasantest  summer  months  I  had  ever  had  the  good 
fortune  to  spend. 

Ill 

If  I  had  had  any  qualms  about  what  should  happen 
when  we  met  again  on  the  following  morning  they  would 
have  been  dispelled  by  the  continued  affability  of  my 
three  charges.  We  employed  ourselves  over  the  break- 
fast-table in  making  plans  for  the  day's  pleasure.  I 
was  encouraged  to  make  suggestions,  and  they  fell  in 
with    all    of    them.      Mv    heart    glowed    towards    them. 


THE  TERRORS  49 

Where  could  I  have  found  anywhere  a  boy  and  two 
girls  who  should  exhibit  so  gratifying  a  desire  to  make 
me  at  home  and  give  me  a  good  time  ?  "  Let  us  get  our 
half-hour's  reading  over,"  I  said.  "  We  will  begin  at 
half-past  nine  and  Oliver  can  do  his  holiday  task  with 
me  for  half  an  hour  after  that,  and  then  we  shall  be  free 
to  enjoy  ourselves  for  the  rest  of  the  day." 

"  That  will  be  a  capital  plan,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"  And  we  might  even  do  it  before  breakfast  on  other 
mornings,"  said  Priscilla,  "  if  Mr.  Abbey  doesn't  mind 
getting  up  early." 

They  all  three  appeared  punctually  in  the  schoolroom 
at  half-past  nine  and  took  their  seats  at  the  table. 
Nothing  in  their  demeanour  warned  me  that  my  hour  of 
grace  was  over. 

I  had  brought  down  four  little  volumes  of  Hamlet, 
one  for  myself  and  one  for  each  of  them,  which  I  now 
handed  out. 

"  We  will  each  take  a  character  in  the  play,"  I  said, 
"  and  when  we  have  finished  a  scene  we  will  talk  it  over." 

"  But  I've  seen  this,  and  I  think  it's  most  awful  rot 
and  rubbish !  "  objected  Oliver,  greatly  to  my  surprise. 

"  Mother  hates  us  reading  about  murders,"  said 
Priscilla. 

"  Bags  I  Hamlet,"  said  Ruth. 

There  arose  a  dispute,  which  was  ended  by  my  saying 
that  I  proposed  to  read  the  part  of  Hamlet  myself. 

"  Oh,  of  eourse,"  said  Oliver,  after  a  short  pause, 
"  good  old  Rumsey  must  have  all  the  fat !  I  suppose 
you'll  take  Ophelia,  too.  She  was  barmy!  Bags  I  the 
ghost.  He's  nothing  to  do  but  stalk,  and  I  can  stalk 
like  winky.  I'd  better  go  outside  the  door  till  my  turn 
comes."     And  he  got  up  to  do  so. 

I  explained  that  we  were  not  going  to  act  the  play, 


50  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

but  onlv  read  it.  "  Sit  down,  Oliver!  "  I  said  sharply, 
for  I  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the  turn  their  behaviour 
had  taken,  and,  although  I  did  not  anticipate  serious 
trouble  as  yet,  I  >;i\v  that  they  would  want  keeping  in 
hand. 

Oliver  dropped  instantly  in  a  sitting  position  on  to 
the  floor.  It  was  a  trick  he  had  been  practising,  and 
the  two  girls  laughed  heartily  at  this  timely  exhibition 
of  it. 

"  Come,  Oliver,  don't  be  an  idiot,"  I  said.  "  Sit  down 
at  the  table  and  let  us  begin." 

We  began.  When  Ruth,  in  the  character  of  Bar- 
nardo,  said  to  Oliver,  who  had  consented  to  read 
Francisco,  "  Get  thee  to  bed}"  he  interpolated  into  the 
text,  "  I've  lost  my  pyjamas,"  and,  passing  on  to  the 
statement  that  he  was  "  sick  at  heart,"  illustrated  it  in 
a  realistic  and  embarrassing  manner.  Priscilla  opened 
the  part  of  Horatio  in  a  deep  bass  voice,  and  my  initial 
speech,  as  Marcellus,  of  "  Hallo,  Barnardo !  "  was  re- 
ceived by  that  character  with  the  reply,  "  Hallo,  old 
sport !  "  instead  of  the  words  Shakespeare  had  set  down 
for  him. 

These  several  witticisms,  which  I  at  first  let  pass,  were 
received  so  uproariously  that  I  had  to  put  an  end  to 
them.  I  put  my  book  face  downwards  on  the  table  and 
said,  seriously  but  kindly :  "  Now,  look  here,  don't 
play  the  fool !  We  can  have  plenty  of  fun  afterwards. 
Read  properly.     W7e  shan't  be  long  at  it." 

This  appeal  was  received  in  silence.  Priscilla  then 
read  a  sentence  in  a  rapid,  toneless  voice,  and  Ruth  fol- 
lowed her.  Then  came  seven  lines  from  Marcellus, 
which  I  read  with  weight  and  feeling,  and  at  the  end  of 
them  there  was  an  instantaneous  outburst  of  applause. 


THE  TERRORS  51 

"  It's  better  than  Little  Tich !  "  said  Oliver.     "  Hong- 


core 


t  " 


I  felt  it  was  time  to  assert  myself.  Again  I  put  down 
the  book  on  the  table  and  said :  "  Now  we  will  begin  all 
over  again,  and  count  the  half-hour  from  now.  If  you 
don't  want  to  stop  here  all  the  morning  I  think  you  had 
better  behave  yourselves." 

"  Must  we  stop  here  all  the  morning  if  we  don't  be- 
have? "  inquired  Oliver. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  treat  you  like  chil- 
dren, but  — " 

"  Then  I  think  I  had  better  clear  out  at  once,"  he 
said,  not  waiting  for  me  to  finish  my  homily,  and  he 
was  through  the  door  before  I  had  recovered  my  wits. 
Priscilla  and  Ruth  immediately  followed  him,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  four  copies  of  Hamlet,  two  on  the  table 
and  two  on  the  floor. 

I  am  glad  now  to  remember  that,  when  I  had  re- 
covered from  my  surprise,  I  laughed.  Although  I  did 
not  realize  it  at  the  time,  it  was  the  turning-point.  If 
I  had  been  simply  angry  at  this  impudent  flouting  of  my 
authority,  and  had  acted  on  my  anger,  I  should  have 
been  beaten  there  and  then,  and  might  as  well  have 
packed  up  and  left  at  once.  For  what  could  I  do? 
Lady  Mary  had  told  me  that  I  must  not  look  to  her  to 
back  me  up,  and  although  I  might  have  chased  Oliver, 
seized  him  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck,  and  brought  him 
back  —  I  did  pursue  this  course  on  occasions  later  —  I 
could  not  treat  the  girls  in  that  way. 

I  laughed  spontaneously,  but  I  was  angry  too ;  only, 
having  laughed,  I  was  mercifully  enabled  to  see  that  my 
only  hope  of  fulfilling  my  duties  was  not  to  show  anger. 
So  I  picked  up  the  books  and  followed  them  out  into  the 


5S  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

garden,  with  the  determination  not  to  let  them  see  that 
I  was.  as  tin-  Americans  say,  rattled. 

I  searched  for  them  all  over  the  garden,  with  only  the 
haziest  idea  of  what  I  should  do  or  say  when  I  found 
them.  But  I  didn't  find  them,  although  I  looked  every- 
where. At  last,  coming  up  the  lawn  from  the  lake,  I 
saw  them,  to  my  surprise,  sitting  in  a  little  group  on  the 
terrace  with  books  in  their  hands,  and  I  made  straight 
for  them.  As  I  went  up  the  steps  I  saw  that  the  books 
were  the  Hamlets  that  I  had  bestowed  on  them,  and  that 
they  were  reading  the  play  as  I  had  asked  them  to  read 
it.  Oliver  raised  his  voice  as  I  approached,  and  said 
with  great  emphasis:  "Oh,  it  offends  me  to  the  soul  to 
see  a  robustious,  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion  to 
tatters  —  to  very  rags.  Hallo,  mother!  Don't  in- 
terrupt us.  Mr.  Rumsey  is  amusing  himself  somewhere 
in  the  garden,  and  we  have  got  to  read  by  ourselves. 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Abbey  —  I  didn't  know  you 
were  there.  I  think  you  might  help  us  a  little,  instead 
of  going  off  by  yourself." 

"  I'm  sure  you  have  been  up  to  some  mischief,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  who  had  come  out  of  the  house  as  I  had 
walked  up  the  steps.  "  But  I  think  they  might  leave  off 
now,  Mr.  Abbey.  I  don't  want  them  to  work  too  hard 
in  the  holidays." 

IV 

They  played  with  me  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse,  but 
never  came  to  the  point  of  finishing  me  off.  They  did 
not  want  to  finish  me  off  altogether,  which  they  could 
have  done  quite  easily  by  refusing  to  pursue  the  mild 
course  of  study  laid  down  for  them,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  day  escaping  my  companionship.  In  that  case  I 
should   have   had  no   alternative   but   to   throw   up   my 


-THE  TERRORS  53 

position.  What  they  did  was  to  encourage  me  to  go 
on  by  behaving  at  intervals  with  perfect  propriety,  and 
only  occasionally  rejecting  my  society  altogether.  At 
times  they  were  as  friendly  and  innocuous  as  they  had 
been  on  the  first  evening,  but  I  am  afraid  this  was  chiefly 
with  the  design  of  drawing  me  out.  My  failing,  as  of 
many  young  men  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  was  vanity 
—  I  did  like  to  feel  that  I  was  liked  and  admired.  Out 
of  this  weakness,  which  they  had  gauged  to  a  nicety, 
they  drew  exhaustless  material  for  their  precocious 
humour;  but  I  will  do  them  the  justice  to  say  that,  even 
when  they  flayed  me  most  unmercifully,  it  was  always 
with  the  most  expert  niceness  of  touch.  They  were 
never  merely  rude,  and  they  were  never  what  nurses  call 
"  nasty."  If  they  had  shown  me  at  any  time  that  they 
really  disliked  me  I  should  have  had  to  go.  They 
didn't  dislike  me.  They  only  wanted  to  get  as  much 
fun  out  of  me  as  they  possibly  could,  and  in  spite  of 
what  I  have  said  in  their  favour  I  must  add  that  their 
way  of  getting  fun  was  exceedingly  unpleasant  for  the 
person  out  of  whom  they  got  it. 

There  was  a  song  going  about  at  that  time,  "  I  want 
to  be  popular,  popular !  "  It  seemed  to  be  their  favour- 
ite song,  and  if  one  of  them  broke  into  it  when  we  had 
apparently  been  getting  on  well  together  for  a  time,  I 
knew  that  my  hour  of  respite  was  over.  They  had 
many  catch  phrases  among  themselves.  One  was,  "  I 
want  to  be  loved  for  myself  " ;  others  were,  "  I'm  the  boy 
for  the  cream,"  "  Feel  my  muscle,"  "  What  size  do  you 
take  in  hats  ?  "  "  I  hope  I  don't  intrude,"  "  But  you 
should  see  me  row."  They  were  all  brought  in  with 
deadly  effect,  and  the  last-named  developed  into  many 
varieties.  Thus,  if  Priscilla  said,  "  I  did  the  fifth  hole 
in  four  " —  we  played  golf  on  a  little  seven-hole  course  in 


54  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

the  park  —  Ruth  would  say,  "  But  you  should  see  me 
eat  jam,"  or  Oliver  would  say,  "  But  you  should  see  me 
lick  postage-stamps." 

These  were  only  pin-pricks.  It  was  more  difficult  to 
keep  my  temper  when,  getting  into  the  boat  after  them, 
I  was  precipitated  into  the  water  by  Oliver  tilting  her 
over  sharply  in  a  way  that  might  have  upset  them  all, 
or  when  Priscilla  offered  me  a  fondant  made  of  chalk, 
or  when  Ruth  put  snails  in  my  evening  shoes,  or  when 
all  three  of  them,  when  there  was  "  company  "  to  tea, 
with  solemn  faces  snatched  whatever  I  was  reaching  for 
in  the  way  of  eatables  out  of  my  reach  and  offered  it 
gracefully  to  somebody  else,  thus  making  me  look  like  a 
fool. 

It  was  this  making  a  fool  of  me  before  other  people  to 
which  I  most  objected  in  them  —  as  when  Lady  Mary's 
brother  and  sister-in-law  came  to  stay  over  the  Sunday, 
and  their  chosen  form  of  humour  was  to  behave  all  the 
time  as  if  they  lived  in  mortal  terror  of  me.  They  sat 
at  meal-time  with  their  eyes  fixed  appealingly  on  me, 
started  when  I  spoke,  and  trembled  when  I  had  spoken, 
feverishly  anticipated  my  every  want,  and  said,  "  Yes> 
Mr.  Abbey,"  "  No,  Mr.  Abbey,"  breathlessly  when  I 
addressed  them.  Once  I  made  a  mild  joke.  They  all 
laughed  suddenly,  and  then  became  suddenly  silent  when 
I  looked  annoyed,  and  Ruth  said  in  a  low  but  heart- 
rending voice:  "  Oh,  don't  punish  us  —  we  didn't  mean 
it!" 

Lady  Mary,  who  was  engaged  in  conversation  with 
her  brother,  took  no  notice,  but  I  could  Bee  that  Lady 
Brede  looked  upon  me  with  anything  but  favour;  and  at 
last,  when  Ruth,  to  whom  the  principal  part  in  the 
comedy  had  evidently  been  entrusted,  got  up  and  left 
the  room  —  but  not  before  she  had  quite  finished  her 


THE  TERRORS  55 

luncheon  —  admirably  sobbing,  because  I  had  suggested 
that,  as  it  was  a  wet  afternoon,  we  should  play  hide-and- 
seek  in  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  she  fixed  me  with  a 
glare,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was  intending  to  speak 
to  Lady  Mary  about  the  children's  evident  fear  of  me, 
and  ask  her  what  she  could  be  thinking  of  to  keep  such 
a  person  as  myself  in  the  house.  Although  her  doubts 
about  me  must  have  been  to  a  certain  extent  removed, 
she  was  never  cordial  to  me,  and  I  believe  she  left  still 
under  the  impression  that  I  was  accustomed  to  "  beat  " 
Oliver,  which  impression  Priscilla  had  cleverly  conveyed 
to  her  in  a  confidential  talk,  without  actually  commit- 
ting herself  to  a  mis-statement. 

To  Priscilla  I  made  an  appeal  when  I  had  been  at  Bar- 
grave  for  some  days  and  suffered  much  discomfort  from 
them.  "  I  really  think  you  are  rather  unkind,"  I  said. 
v"  You  are  making  my  stay  here  very  disagreeable,  in- 
stead of  very  pleasant,  as  it  might  be.  I  am  quite  pre- 
pared to  be  friends  and  help  you  to  enjoy  yourselves. 
Why  can't  you  be  nice  to  me?  " 

She  nervously  rolled  a  ribbon  in  her  fingers  and  said : 
"  This  is  rather  sudden.  I  would  rather  you  spoke  to 
mother  first,  if  you  don't  mind."  A  burst  of  laughter 
from  behind  the  curtains  showed  me  that  I  was  not  alone 
with  her,  as  I  thought,  and  after  that  they  frequently 
said  to  one  another,  "  I  do  think  you're  unkind,"  or, 
"  Please  be  nice  to  me." 

I  stood  it  stoically  after  that,  was  careful  to  hide  my 
scars,  and  managed  to  laugh  at  a  good  deal  that  I  didn't 
feel  like  laughing  at  in  the  least ;  and  all  through  I 
managed  to  keep  from  Lady  Mary  the  wounds  they  dealt 
to  my  vanity. 

At  last  I  fell  ill  with  a  painful  attack  of  tonsillitis. 
Lady  Mary  was  kindness  itself.     She  engaged  a  nurse 


56  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

for  me,  plied  me  with  every  delicacy  that  I  might  have 
enjoyed  if  I  could  have  enjoyed  anything,  and  fre- 
quently visited  my  sick-bed.  Rather  to  my  surprise, 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  first  day.  she  proposed  a  visit 
from  the  children.  "  They  would  like  to  come  and  cheer 
you  up  for  a  bit,  if  you  feel  equal  to  them,"  she  said. 

I  did  not  feel  equal  to  them,  and  wanted  none  of  their 
cheering  up.  I  had  a  poultice  round  my  throat,  and 
had  not  shaved,  and  I  saw  them,  in  imagination,  going 
solemnly  about  with  their  necks  wrapped  up  and  paint 
on  their  chins,  in  unflattering  imitation  of  my  appear- 
ance. So  I  begged  to  be  excused  frcm  the  suggested 
visit,  but  was  surprised,  later  on  in  the  evening,  when 
I  had  been  left  alone  for  a  short  time,  by  a  hurried  in- 
cursion from  Priscilla.  "How  are  you?"  she  asked, 
standing  just  inside  the  door.  "  I  hope  you're  bet- 
ter? " 

I  turned  away  from  her.  "  I'm  getting  on  all  right, 
thanks,"  I  said  rather  ungraciously ;  and  as  she  seemed 
to  have  nothing  more  to  say  she  left. 

The  next  morning  Oliver  came  in.  "  How  are  you?  " 
he  asked.     "  I  hope  you're  better?  " 

The  exact  similarity  of  his  speech  to  that  of  Pris- 
cilla made  me  suspect  some  plot.  "  I  shall  get  better 
all  the  quicker  if  you  leave  me  alone,"  I  said.  And  he 
did  so. 

In  the  afternoon  it  was  Ruth.  "  How  are  you?  "  she 
said.     "  I  hope  you're  better?  " 

I  pretended  to  be  asleep,  and  she  went  away.  I  was 
pretty  bad  on  that  second  day,  and  I  asked  my  nurse 
to  keep  them  out  of  the  room. 

u  You  will  like  to  see  them  when  you're  a  bit  easier," 
she  said.  "  They  are  always  worrying  me  to  know  how 
you  are." 


THE  TERRORS  57 

"  Are  they?  "  I  said  to  myself.  "  They'll  worry  you 
all  right  before  you've  been  here  long."  I  felt  malevo- 
lent towards  them.  When  I  got  better  they  would  find 
that  their  song,  "  I  want  to  be  popular,"  had  lost  it's 
point. 

It  was  on  the  third  day  when  Ruth  brought  her 
favourite  bantam  hen  in  to  show  me,  and  Priscilla  pre- 
sented me  with  a  great  sheaf  of  roses,  which  she  ar- 
ranged in  a  bowl  on  the  table  by  my  bed,  not  looking 
at  me,  but  talking  amiably  all  the  time,  that  I  began 
to  think  they  might  mean  kindly  after  all.  This  idea 
was  confirmed  when  Oliver,  who  had  a  trick  of  imitating 
a  monkey,  came  into  the  room  backwards  and  on  all 
fours  capered  round  the  foot  of  the  bed,  scratched  him- 
self and  capered  out  again,  colliding  with  the  nurse, 
who  was  coming  in  at  the  door.  This  made  me  laugh, 
although  she  was  not  amused. 

On  the  fourth  day,  when  I  began  to  get  much  better, 
they  were  in  and  out  of  the  room  all  the  time,  and 
they  had  never  been  more  amusing.  But  I  was  still 
feeling  sulky,  and  I  did  not  laugh  more  than  I  felt 
inclined  to  at  their  tricks  and  humours.  Previously, 
when  they  had  let  me  alone  for  a  time,  and  exercised 
their  wit  on  other  objects,  in  my  temporary  relief  I  had 
laughed  rather  too  readily  and  given  them  handles. 
But  as  long  as  I  remained  in  my  room,  and  they  visited 
me  there,  they  never  once  relapsed  into  the  mood  I 
dreaded,  or  showed  any  signs  of  doing  so.  By  the  time 
I  came  downstairs  and  pottered  about  in  the  sun,  still 
feeling  very  shaky,  I  had  lost  my  dread  of  them ;  but 
I  suppose  I  did  not  show  any  marked  pleasure  in  their 
society,  for  I  felt  that,  when  I  got  quite  well  again,  they 
would  become  as  tiresome  as  ever. 

But  I  was  wrong.     I  was  walking  up  and  down  the 


58  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

terrace,  when  Oliver  came  up  to  me  and  slipped  his  arm 
through  mine. 

"  I  Bay,  old  man,"  he  said,  "  don't  be  snuffy  with  us 
any  more.  We're  only  waiting  for  you  to  get  better 
to  have  some  larks." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are, "  I  said.  "  But  I  don't  think  I'm 
going  to  stay  much  longer  when  I  get  better." 

"  Not  going  to  stay !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  Why  not?  " 

"  Oh,  I've  had  enough  of  it,"  I  said.  "  I've  gone 
through  the  beastliest  month  I've  ever  had  in  my  life, 
and  I  want  to  go  and  be  with  people  I  can  get  on  with. 
There  are  plenty  of  them,  although  it  may  surprise  you 
and  the  girls  to  hear  it." 

"  Of  course,  I  know  you  were  jolly  popular  at  Cam- 
bridge," he  said,  with  a  grin,  after  a  moment's  considera- 
tion. 

I  disengaged  my  arm  and  stopped  short. 

"  As  long  as  I'm  here  you  won't  say  that  sort  of  thing 
again.  Do  you  hear?  "  I  said,  all  my  ill-humour  surg- 
ing up.  "  I've  stood  all  I'm  going  to  from  you,  and 
Priscilla  and  Ruth  too,  and  you  can  go  and  tell  them 
so." 

He  looked  disturbed  for  a  moment  and  then  smiled 
sweetly  up  in  my  face. 

"I  didn't  mean  it  for  cheek,  old  boy,"  he  said;  "it 
slipped  out.  But  we  like  you,  really,  and  we're  not  go- 
ing to  play  the  goat  any  more." 

My  ill-humour  departed.  It  was  difficult  to  resist 
Oliver  when  he  chose  to  be  friendly.  I  had  not  found 
it  possible  to  do  so,  even  when  I  had  known  that  his 
friendliness  was  only  temporary. 

"  Well,  you  have  been  terrors  —  all  three  of  you,"  I 
said. 

"  I  know,"  he  replied  soothingly.     "  We're  beasts. 


THE  TERRORS  59 

It  takes  us  like  that.  But  you've  stuck  it  awfully  well, 
although  it's  a  pity  you  didn't  knock  all  our  heads  to- 
gether, like  E.  J.  did  when  we  first  tried  it  on  with  him. 
You  never  saw  Priscilla  so  surprised  in  your  life.  But 
we  made  up  our  minds  to  chuck  it  directly  you  got  really 
restive,  and  we  were  sorry  when  you  were  ill.  I  say, 
you  don't  really  mean  you're  going,  do  you?  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  all  three  going  to  behave  decently  I 
shan't  go  till  my  time's  up,"  I  said. 

"  It  won't  be  a  question  of  behaviour,"  said  Oliver 
brilliantly.  "  We've  always  liked  you  rather,  and  now 
we  like  you  very  much.  So  we  shall  all  be  pals  to- 
gether." 

And  we  were,  for  the  rest  of  my  time.  When  I  left  I 
thanked  Lady  Mary  for  all  her  kindness,  and  told  her 
how  much  I  had  enjoyed  myself. 

"  There's  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  she  said ;  "  it's 
all  the  dear  children.  I  saw  that  they  took  to  you  from 
the  very  first." 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE 
I 

MY  Lord  and  his  guests  were  dining.  Shining 
stars  from  wax  candles  on  buffets  and  side- 
tables  and  in  sconces  on  the  stone  walls 
pierced  the  deep  shadows  of  the  raftered  roof,  shone 
on  carved,  gilded,  age-polished  wood,  glittered  on  mas- 
sive plate;  and  clusters  of  shaded  lights  on  the  long 
dinner-table  lit  up  the  flowers  and  the  glass  and  the 
silver,  the  jewels  of  the  women,  the  white  fronts  of  the 
men,  the  animated  faces,  dark  or  fair. 

At  one  end  of  the  hall  was  a  carved  screen,  and  be- 
hind it  a  rough  oak-floored  gallery.  A  panel  of  the 
screen  had  been  ever  so  little  withdrawn,  and  through 
the  narrow  space  thus  disclosed  in  a  dark  corner  a  lit- 
tle group  of  maid-servants  were  watching  the  scene  with 
whispered  nudging  comment,  their  heads  clustered  and 
peering.  In  front  of  them,  pushed  up  against  the  dusty 
woodwork  of  the  screen,  a  small  boy  looked  down  into 
the  hall  with  fascinated  uninterrupted  gaze.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  neat  suit  of  black,  with  a  white  collar  over 
his  jacket,  from  which  the  two  cords  at  the  back  of 
his  thin  neck  stood  out  and  held  his  head  very  upright. 
He  was  the  only  child  of  the  butler.  Willie  Page,  the 
friendly  maids  called  him,  and  drew  his  attention,  gig- 
gling,  to   his    father's    distinguished    appearance. 

It  was  his  father  whom  his  eyes  followed.  The  maids 
discussed  the  dresses  and  the  jewels,  the  careful  coiffures, 
drew    bold    inference    from    heads    mutually    inclined, 

63 


64.  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

whispered  names,  hinted  at  stories.  If  they  spoke  of 
their  fellow-servants  at  solemn  duty  down  there,  it  was 
to  chaff"  one  another.  *'  Look  at  your  Frederick,  Liz- 
zie;  he  don't  half  fancy  himself."  ''Did  you  see  that, 
Ada  —  what  John  did?  Mr.  Page'll  have  something 
to  say  to  him.  I  wouldn't  be  in  his  shoes."  But  it  was 
the  company  they  had  come  to  gaze  at.  The  footmen 
were  always  with  them,  and  more  humanly  amusing  when 
not  at  such  high  pressure. 

To  the  boy  they  were  now  fulfilling  the  due  end 
of  their  lives.  They  were  commonplace  young  men 
enough  when,  in  white  aprons,  linen  jackets,  or  shirt- 
sleeves, they  joked  with  the  maids,  with  one  another,  or 
with  him,  in  the  regions  devoted  to  their  ordinary  daily 
labours.  It  was  on  such  occasions  as  this  that,  with 
powdered  hair,  silk  stockings,  and  fine  liveries,  in  the 
gleam  of  publicity,  they  put  the  crown  to  their  service. 
And  far  above  them,  with  brain  to  direct,  unquestioned 
authority,  experienced  concentrated  skill,  was  his  father, 
whose  plain  dress,  not  differing  from  that  of  those  whom 
he  served,  signified  the  height  of  dignity  to  which  he  had 
attained. 

He  noted  all  the  points  of  the  quiet  dexterous  serv- 
ice. There  was  no  fuss  and  no  hurry.  Every  diner's 
desire  was  fulfilled  almost  before  he  was  aware  of  it. 
He  gasped  when  the  delinquent  John,  brushing  a  lady's 
shoulder  with  the  dish  he  was  handing  her,  and  draw- 
ing momentary  attention  to  himself  as  human,  broke  the 
wonderfully-devised  automatic  illusion,  and  drew  from 
his  overlord  a  hurried  step  forward  and  a  pregnant  look. 
It  was  the  perfection  of  the  service  that  held  the  admir- 
ing attention  of  the  butler's  son,  the  working  of  the 
machine,  not  the  company  to  whose  convenience  it 
tended.      So  a  traveller,  watching  the  engines  of  a  ship, 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  65 

might  forget  that  they  were  carrying  him  forward. 
The  women  withdrew  from  the  hall  with  a  sweep  of 
silk  and  velvet  and  glitter  of  jewels.  The  men  gathered 
together  at  one  end  of  the  table.  The  maids  in  the 
gallery,  unconsciously  feminine,  closed  the  panel  in  the 
screen.  "  Now  then,  Willie  Page,"  said  one  of  them ; 
"  you  run  along  home  to  your  mother.  It's  nearly  ten 
o'clock.  She'll  have  something  to  say  to  you,  if  I  know 
'er." 

II 

The  boy,  awakened  from  his  dream,  clattered  down 
the  stairs  from  the  gallery,  and  ran  out  through  the 
great  doors  into  the  courtyard,  and  so  into  the  moon- 
lit park. 

He  crossed  the  road  in  front  of  the  house  and  fol- 
lowed a  track  through  the  fern  to  where  the  lights  from 
a  low  cottage,  in  a  group  of  trees  at  the  top  of  a  knoll, 
shone  some  four  hundred  yards  away.  "  What  a  sweet 
place !  "  visitors  would  say,  passing  the  butler's  cottage 
on  their  walks  and  drives.  With  its  thatched  roof, 
broad  eaves,  latticed  rose-framed  windows,  and  bright 
patch  of  garden,  divided  from  the  park  by  a  white  rail- 
ing, it  formed  part  of  the  amenities  of  the  property. 
But  Mrs.  Page  found  it  very  inconvenient  to  confine 
all  her  outdoor  activities  to  the  tiny  yard  at  the  back. 

The  boy  ran  all  the  way  home,  and,  panting  and  a 
little  frightened,  opened  the  door  of  the  kitchen  in  which 
his  mother  was  sitting  sewing  by  the  table.  She  was  a 
grey-haired  woman,  conspicuously  neat.  She  looked 
up  from  her  work  and  bit  off  a  piece  of  thread. 

"  Lor',  child,"  she  said  quietly,  "  you  didn't  ought  to 
run  so  fast.  Sit  down  and  tell  me  about  the  com- 
pany." 


66  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

He  shut  the  door  behind  him,  greatly  relieved  at  his 

reception,  sat  down  on  a  wooden  chair  by  the  fireplace, 
swinging  his  thin  black-stockinged  legs,  and  broke  into 
voluble  description.  His  father's  figure  loomed  up 
through  bis  tale  like  that  of  some  epic  hero  round  whom 
all  ordinary  doings  revolve. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  like  him,  mother,"  he  said. 

"  So  you  will  be,  some  day,"  she  replied,  "  if  you  mind 
your  book  and  keep  yourself  respectable.  Only  you 
never  will  if  you  take  up  with  Rat-catcher's  Joe,  and 
such  trash  as  that." 

The  boy  sat  silent  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

"  Now  tell  me  about  the  company,"  his  mother  said. 

He  began  a  halting,  colourless  catalogue,  prompted 
by  questions,  suddenly  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Page  burst- 
ing out  at  him: 

"Haven't  you  got  any  eyes  in  your  head?  If  I'd 
known  you  couldn't  take  notice  better  than  that  you 
wouldn't  have  gone.  And  what  do  you  mean  by  coming 
in  half  an  hour  after  I  told  you?  Be  off  to  bed,  quick, 
or  I'll  take  the  stick  to  you.  I  never  seen  such  a  boy. 
You're  more  trouble  than  a  houseful.      Be  off'!  " 

He  vanished  quickly  and  silently,  glad  to  be  allowed 
to  get  out  of  reach  of  the  angry  storming  tongue. 
His  mother,  suddenly  calm,  replenished  the  fire  and  sat 
down  to  her  work  again  to  await  her  husband's  re- 
turn. 

Mrs.  Page  was  known  as  a  highly  respectable  woman. 
She  had  been  first  housemaid  at  the  castle.  Like  her 
husband,  she  came  of  a  race  of  servants,  sober,  re- 
sponsible, discreet  men  and  women,  filling  one  place  after 
another  in  the  higher  ranks  of  their  calling,  well-dressed, 
well-fed,  well-housed  through  generations,  a  class  apart. 
She  kept  her  little  home  as  clean  and  tidy  as  she  had 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  67 

kept  the  rooms  and  corridors  under  her  charge  when  in 
service.  Visitors  from  the  castle  would  sometimes 
honour  her  by  drinking  tea  in  her  parlour.  There  were 
photographs  of  "  the  family  "  on  the  walls,  in  frames 
on  mantelpiece  and  table,  and  little  presents  that  had 
been  given  to  her  or  her  husband  —  inkstands,  blotters, 
paper-knives,  honourably  treated,  never  used.  The 
window  was  blocked  with  pot  plants.  It  was  a  cottage 
parlour ;  there  was  no  attempt  to  assimiliate  it  to  the 
style  of  the  rooms  of  her  superiors. 

She  sat  now  quietly  in  the  neat  little  kitchen,  with  its 
bright  pots  and  pans  and  its  well-scrubbed  woodwork, 
while  the  cuckoo-clock  by  the  dresser  ticked  loudly  and 
the  fire  winked  in  the  grate.  She  had  on  a  black  dress 
with  a  lace  collar  and  a  large  brooch.  Her  hair  was 
brushed  smoothly  back  from  her  forehead,  the  wedding- 
ring  on  her  thin  hand  caught  the  light  from  the  lamp 
as  she  sewed  diligently. 

So  she  sat  sometimes  doing  the  honours  to  the  young 
ladies  from  the  castle,  soft-voiced,  correct  of  speech,  re- 
spectfully at  her  ease,  with  plenty  to  say,  but  never 
over-stepping  the  bounds  of  caste.  A  highly  respect- 
able, civil-spoken  woman,  although  liable  to  rather 
sudden  outbursts  of  temper,  as  is  the  way  with  many 
good  servants,  who  must  have  relaxation  of  some 
sort. 

Presently  her  husband  came  in.  He  had  on  a  thin 
black  overcoat  over  his  evening  clothes,  and  when  he  re- 
moved it  looked,  with  his  bald  head  and  portly  presence, 
like  a  family  solicitor. 

"  Well,  wife,  I  hope  you've  got  something  a  little 
tasty  for  supper,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Page  put  her  work  away  and  busied  herself  be- 
tween the  oven  and  the  table,  already  laid  for  a  late 


68  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

meal.  The  savoury  viands  she  presently  produced 
would  have  made  her  ladyship's  menu  cards  blush  pink, 
but  the  stately  butler,  relieved  of  his  duties,  devoured 
them  with  avidity.  He  had  made  himself  comfortable, 
changing  his  evening  coat  for  a  very  old  jacket,  taking 
off  his  collar  and  tie,  and  putting  on  a  pair  of  carpet 
slippers  which  had  been  warming  in  front  of  the  fire. 
He  finished  his  supper  with  a  Welsh  rarebit  and  a  deep 
draught  of  ale  from  a  pewter  tankard. 

"  That's  better  than  all  your  French  kickshaws,"  he 
said,  wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  "  Did 
you  let  Willie  go  up  to  the  gallery?  "  he  asked  when  he 
had  satisfied  his  wife's  curiosity  as  to  the  company  he 
had  come  from  serving. 

"  Drat  the  child !  "  said  Mrs.  Page,  "  he  couldn't  tell 
me  no  more  than  if  he'd  never  been  there  at  all." 

The  father  laughed. 

"  I  know  what  Willie  kept  his  eyes  for,"  he  said.  "  I 
tell  you,  wife,  there's  nothing  that  boy  won't  rise  to. 
I've  done  pretty  well  myself,  but  I  thought  a  deal  more 
of  marbles  and  birds-nesting  at  his  age  than  of  getting 
on  in  service." 

"  The  boy'll  do  well  enough  if  lie  can  be  broke  of  go- 
ing about  with  that  Rat-catcher's  Joe." 

"Ah!"  said  the  butler  thoughtfully.  "That's  a 
funny  thing,  that  is.  What  he  sees  in  the  young  var- 
mint I  can't  tell." 

"  It  isn't  for  want  of  walloping,"  added  Mrs.  Page, 
and  the  question  that  vexed  the  souls  of  this  respectable 
couple  was  dropped  for  the  time  being. 

When  the  butler  had  finished  his  supper  he  lit  a  pipe, 
and  got  out  a  concertina  and  a  book  of  hymns  compiled 
by  Messrs.  Moody  and  Sankey.  With  the  book  on  his 
knvc  he  stated  himself  on  a  cushioned  wooden  chair  by 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  69 

the  fire  and  played  until  his  wife  had  cleared  the  things 
away,  when  they  both  went  to  bed. 


Ill 

Two  boys  were  lying  on  the  rabbit-eaten  turf  of  a 
coombe  under  the  shadow  of  an  out-cropping  rock.  The 
gorse  was  in  flower  around  them,  and  scented  the  hot  air 
with  its  fragrance.  The  sky  was  blue  above  them,  and 
far  below  the  blue  sea  murmured,  pushing  and  with- 
drawing white  fingers  on  the  sands  of  a  little  cove. 

One  of  the  boys  was  Willie  Page,  the  other  was  a 
ragged  urchin  whose  appearance  contrasted  strangely 
with  that  of  the  proper,  well-kept  child  beside  him.  He 
was,  perhaps,  a  year  older.  He  had  a  dark,  handsome, 
and,  it  must  be  confessed,  very  dirty  face,  and  his 
tangled  hair  was  dead-black.  His  eyes  roved  boldly. 
As  he  lay  on  the  grass,  throwing  about  his  lean  muscu- 
lar limbs,  he  looked  the  embodiment  of  careless  ad- 
venturous freedom.  He  was  known  in  the  village,  five 
miles  away,  as  Rat-catcher's  Joe. 

Willie  Page  had  been  expatiating  on  the  glories  of  the 
banquet  the  night  before,  too  earnest  in  his  enthusiasm 
to  allow  himself  to  be  stopped  by  the  jeering  comments 
of  his  companion. 

"  And  I  suppose  you'll  wear  silk  stockings  and  red 
breeches,  and  have  your  head  filled  with  flour  some  Jay." 

"  Not  at  first,"  replied  the  butler's  son,  in  all  good 
faith,  his  mind  filled  with  the  vision  of  stately  service. 
"  I  shall  begin  as  house-boy :  and,  if  I  behave,  and  am 
quick  and  obliging,  father  says,  with  what  he  can  do 
for  me,  I  shall  soon  rise." 

The  ragged  figure  by  his  side  sat  up  on  the  grass,  his 
bright  eyes  gleaming  with  malice. 


70  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  You'll  wear  an  apron  like  a  m,  id,  and  wash  up  pots 
and  pans,"  he  said,  in  mocking  derision.  "  And  the  fat 
cook'll  box  your  ears  if  you  don't  do  what  she  learns 
you.  You'll  wait  on  the  other  servants,  from  what 
you've  told  me,  and  they'll  all  be  above  you.  And  you'll 
have  to  be  humble  to  'em.  And  when  you  get  on.  you'll 
fig  yourself  out  like  a  Guy  Fawkes,  and  do  what  some- 
body else  tells  you.  And  you'll  always  do  what  some- 
body rise  tells  you  all  your  life,  even  when  you've  got  a 
bald  head  like  your  old  dad.  You're  a  measly  cur,  Bill 
Page,  and  so  is  your  dad,  for  all  he  holds  himself  so 
high.  /  wouldn't  lead  such  a  life,  not  if  you  were  to 
pay  me  all  the  money  the  lord  has  got." 

The  butler's  son  was  stung  into  a  rare  self-assertion. 

"  No  one  would  take  you  into  good  service,*'  he  said. 
"  Look  at  your  clothes  !  " 

The  other  boy  subsided  on  to  the  turf  again  with  a 
careless  laugh. 

"  Clothes  ain't  everything,"  he  said,  with  precocious 
wisdom.  "  You've  got  good  clothes  enough,  but  you 
don't  look  higher  than  to  be  a  servant  all  your  life.  If 
vou  can  be  a  servant  to  a  lord,  that's  all  you  look 
for." 

"  What  do  you  look  to  be,  then?  " 

"  Me?  I'll  be  a  lord  myself,  or  as  good  as  one,"  re- 
plied the  ragged  child.  "  I'll  have  a  castle,  and  all  the 
gold  and  silver  what  you've  talked  about,  and  great  lazy 
men  to  hand  me  my  victuals.  And  I'll  learn  'em  to  do 
what  I  tell  'em  too.  I'll  have  you,  Bill  Page,  to  wait 
on  me,  if  you're  quick  and  obligin'.  If  you  ain't,  I'll 
sack  you.  Come  on,  Bill  Page.  We'll  play  at  me 
being  a  lord  and  you  being  my  servant.  Take  off  my 
boots." 

They  played  fantastically  for  an  hour,  the  little  out- 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  71 

cast  comporting  himself  with  impressive  dignity,  the  re- 
spectable  servant's  child  waiting  on  his  whims.  In  the 
evening  they  went  home,  Rat-catcher's  Joe  to  his 
father's  hovel  on  the  common,  William  Page  to  the  neat 
cottage  in  the  park,  where  his  mother  lost  no  time  in 
giving  him  a  sound  thrashing. 

IV 

Page's  master  stood  in  front  of  the  fire  in  his  busi- 
ness room,  a  tall,  full-bodied,  hearty  man,  apparently 
extremely  well  pleased  with  himself. 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly,  Page ;  by  all  means,"  he  said 
loudly.     "  I'll  write  today." 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  my  lord,"  said  the 
butler.  "  It  will  be  a  good  start  for  the  boy  to  get  into 
such  an  establishment." 

"  Yes,  he  ought  to  do  well.  I  suppose  you've  made  it 
all  right  with  the  house  steward?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  He  is  willing  to  take  the  boy,  but 
he  is  not  allowed  to  engage  any  servant  without  his 
Grace's  approval." 

"  I  see.  /  see.  Well,  we'll  make  that  all  right. 
There's  nothing  against  him,  is  there?  Good  report 
from  the  school,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  eh?  " 

The  butler  was  a  trifle  disturbed. 

"  Very  good,  my  lord,"  he  said,  "  except  for  one 
thing.  His  mother  and  me  haven't  been  able  to  break 
him  of  following  the  Rat-catcher's  boy.  There's  no 
good  hiding  it." 

This  piece  of  information,  somewhat  to  his  surprise, 
was  received  with  a  hearty  laugh.  The  rat-catcher, 
firmly  established  on  a   nettle-grown   plot  of  his   own 


THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

ground  on  the  skirts  of  his  lordship's  best  covert,  had 
occasioned  acute  annoyance  for  many  years  to  that 
estimable  landowner,  and  to  the  community  in  general} 
and  his  name  was  not  usually  greeted  with  Laughter. 

His  lordship  threw  himself  into  an  easy-chair. 

"  You  needn't  worry  about  that  any  more,"  he  said. 
"  I've  got  rid  of  that  rascal  at  last.  It  is  what  I  have 
been  trying  to  do  for  the  last  twenty  years." 

"  Indeed,  my  lord !  "  said  the  butler,  hoping  to  hear 
more.  He  did  sometimes  enjoy  a  little  of  his  master's 
confidence,  when  the  mood  of  the  moment  was  expansive 
and  breezy. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Carpenter  has  just  been  in  to  tell  me  about 
it.  I  don't  know  when  I've  heard  anything  that  has 
pleased  me  more.  I've  been  able  to  put  that  fellow  in 
prison  half  a  dozen  times,  but  I've  never  been  able  to  get 
him  to  sell  his  holding." 

"  I  suppose  your  lordship  knows  that  he  has  married 
that  woman  at  last?  " 

"  Yes,  and  she's  done  the  trick.  It  is  she  that 
has  made  him  sell,  I  take  it.  She's  greedy.  I  hear 
she  has  turned  the  boy  out  of  doors  too.  Is  that 
true?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  He's  gone  off,  nobody  knows  where. 
There  isn't  a  woman  in  the  village  that  isn't  rejoicing. 
The  way  the  other  boys  run  after  him  —  well,  nobody 
could  do  anything  to  stop  them.  And  my  boy  was  the 
worst  of  the  lot." 

"Ah!  Well,  the  temptation  is  removed  now.  He 
was  a  shocking  young  rascal,  as  bad  as  his  father,  and 
a  good  deal  cleverer.  If  he  isn't  hung,  he'll  probably 
do  something.  Very  well,  Page,  Ell  write  to  the  Duke. 
And  if  you  ever  want  your  boy  under  you  here,  you  have 
only  got  to  say  so,  you  know.     I  daresay  you're  right 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  73 

to   start   him   somewhere   else.     I    hope   he'll   do    you 
credit." 

The  butler  thanked  him  and  withdrew.  And  so  Willie 
Page,  relieved  of  his  sole  temptation  to  irregularity  of 
life,  set  his  foot  on  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder. 


From  London  to  Ireland,  from  Ireland  to  Scotland, 
from  Scotland  to  the  great  palace  in  the  Midlands,  Wil- 
liam Page  followed  the  family  whom  he  served;  year 
after  year,  steadily  rising,  from  house-boy  to  footman, 
from  footman  to  valet,  from  valet  to  groom  of  the 
chambers,  and  finally,  when  he  was  not  much  over  thirty, 
reaching  the  proud  position  of  house-steward,  and  the 
summit  of  his  ambition. 

His  master  died  and  he  served  his  successor,  saw  his 
new  master's  children  grow  up,  marry,  and  have  chil- 
dren of  their  own.  He  knew  of  all  that  went  on  in  the 
family,  and  in  the  numerous  great  families  with  which  it 
was  allied ;  was,  indeed,  a  humble  member  of  it  himself, 
relying  upon  its  doings  for  variety  in  his  life,  and  de- 
siring none  of  his  own  making.  He  looked  forward  to 
no  other  kind  of  existence,  unless  it  was  to  a  far-off, 
pensioned  old  age,  which  he  should  spend  in  a  cottage 
hard  by  the  gates  of  a  great  house,  a  well-served,  highly- 
considered  old  man,  visited  in  his  easy  retirement  by  the 
members  of  the  family  to  whom  he  had  given  the  service 
of  a  lifetime. 

His  father,  pensioned  off  now  —  as  some  day  he  hoped 
to  be  —  still  lived  in  the  ornamental  cottage  divided 
from  the  park  by  white  railings,  and  he  and  his  wife 
vere  visited  on  occasions  by  the  great  people  from  the 


74  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

castle.  William  Page  sometimes  visited  them  himself 
and  stayed  for  a  week  or  so.  They  treated  him  with 
great  respect,  and  all  their  talk  was  of  the  events  of 
their  respective  services. 

He  slept  in  the  little  room  he  had  occupied  as  a  child 
when  his  mother  had  thrashed  him  for  his  unaccountable 
obliquity  in  the  matter  of  Rat-catcher's  Joe.  They 
could  afford  to  laugh  over  that  now. 

"  I  never  could  tell  what  you  could  see  in  that  raga- 
muffin," said  Mrs.  Page;  "  you  that  was  so  well  brought 
up  that  you  was  almost  like  a  little  gentleman  yourself 
—  to  look  at,  that  is,  for  you  were  none  in  your  go- 
ings-on." She  was  a  very  old  woman  now,  but  occa- 
sionally permitted  herself  a  tart  freedom  of  speech,  even 
to  her  middle-aged  son,  who  had  risen  far  higher  than 
his  father. 

William  could  not  tell  either,  any  more  than  before. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  has  become  of  him,"  he  said 
reflectively. 

"  No  good,  I'll  warrant,"  replied  Mrs.  Page,  and  he 
did  not  combat  her  conviction. 

He  put  by  money,  year  after  year.  He  had  nothing 
to  spend  it  on.  He  inherited  the  savings  of  his  father 
and  mother  when  they  died,  and  put  them  by  too.  He 
came  to  be  considered  a  most  eligible  parti  by  the  upper- 
most class  of  upper  female  servant,  and,  indeed,  it  was 
generally  said  that  the  housekeeper  at  the  palace  in  the 
Midlands,  who  was  the  widow  of  a  Rector,  had  made 
advances  to  him. 

Hut  he  had  at  no  time  any  inclination  towards  matri- 
mony. His  position  was  sufficient  for  him,  and  its  value 
subtly  enhanced  by  his  bachelorhood. 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  75 

VI 

It  was  June  in  London,  and  the  great  territorial  mag- 
nate served  by  William  Page  had  left  his  country  houses 
standing  amongst  their  pride  of  summer  beauty  to  the 
care  of  responsible  people  living  in  back  premises,  and 
had  removed  his  household  to  a  grim  mansion  in  the 
heart  of  the  town,  all  dirty  stone  and  narrow  window 
without,  all  luxury  and  beauty  within. 

This  particular  magnate's  territorial  greatness  had 
been  founded  some  generations  back  upon  finance,  and 
finance  still  exercised  some  of  his  attention,  so  that 
there  occasionally  appeared  for  a  day  or  two  at  one  or 
another  of  the  country  houses,  or  at  dinner  in  London, 
people  whom  William  Page  looked  upon  with  mild  dis- 
approval as  not  belonging  of  right  to  the  world  in  which 
he  would  have  liked  to  see  his  master  exclusively  move. 
Especially  was  this  the  case  when  he  was  instructed  to 
arrange  for  a  dinner  for  men  only,  while  the  ladies  of 
the  house  either  dined  out  or  were  served  in  another 
room. 

Such  a  dinner  was  now  to  take  place  for  about  a  dozen 
men,  and  he  learned  that  the  chief  guest  of  the  evening 
was  to  be  Robert  Coombeare,  the  American  financier, 
whose  name  was  just  then  on  many  lips  and  on  many  a 
printed  page. 

Now  Coombeare  was  the  name  of  the  West  Country 
village  in  which  William  Page  had  been  brought  up,  and 
the  coincidence  started  a  train  of  thought  in  his  mind 
which  led  to  no  very  definite  conclusion,  but  prepared 
him  somewhat  for  the  surprise  that  came  on  the  night 
of  the  dinner.  For  Robert  Coombeare  was  no  other 
than  his  boyhood's  companion  and  hero,  Rat-catcher's 
Joe. 


76  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it  at  all.  William  Page 
recognized  him  directly,  in  spite  of  the  difference  in 
station  and  appearance  that  the  years  had  brought. 
He  did  nut  make  himself  known  at  once,  but  observed 
his  master's  guest  throughout  the  evening  with  the  clos- 
est attention,  remaining  in  the  dining-room  for  that 
purpose,  and  causing  thereby  some  annoyance  to  those 
under  him. 

The  man  whom  he  was  observing  he  had  last  seen  as  a 
ragged  boy,  accounted  far  beneath  himself  in  social 
status.  He,  William  Page,  had  gone  far  since  those 
days,  and  was  as  proud  of  his  career  as  any  man.  Yet 
here  was  that  one-time  inferior  sitting  as  an  equal  with 
those  before  whom  he  himself  was  accustomed  to  bow 
as  gods  moving  in  a  different  world.  A  glimpse  of 
larger  ambitions  than  those  of  the  most  dignified  do- 
mestic service  came  to  him,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  a  doubt  whether  his  own  career  was  as  satisfactory 
as  it  had  always  appeared.  The  vision  and  the  doubt 
passed  like  shadows  across  his  mind  and  were  gone. 
For  himself  the  path  he  had  set  out  to  tread  had  been  the 
straight  one,  and  had  led  him  to  the  goal  of  his  desires. 
There  could  be  no  jealous  regrets  on  that  score,  and  the 
slight  shadows  made  way  for  a  genuine  pride  and  pleas- 
ure in  the  achievements  of  the  man  whose  dominant  per- 
sonality he  had  recognized  at  a  time  when  the  prediction 
of  his  later  success  would  have  seemed  to  the  world  a 
matter  for  laughter. 

The  talk  was  of  finance  and  of  great  undertakings. 
Coombeare  held  his  own  with  easy  assurance,  as  one 
whose  word  was  of  weight  in  these  matters,  and  he  was 
listened  to  with  the  deference  due  to  an  acknowledged 
master  of  his  subject.  He  spoke  with  a  strong  Ameri- 
can accent,  and  no  one  in  the  room,  with  the  exception 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  77 

of  his  host's  servant,  had  any  idea  that  he  was  an  Eng- 
lishman. His  supposed  nationality  probably  excused 
in  the  minds  of  the  rest  of  the  company  an  obvious  ig- 
norance of  the  manners  of  polite  society ;  but  William 
Page,  to  whom  the  niceties  of  the  code  of  behaviour 
ranked  second  in  importance  to  the  Ten  Commandments, 
and  occupied  considerably  more  of  his  attention,  watched 
him  transgress  in  small  matters  with  shame  and  shrink- 
ing. If  the  talk  turned  for  a  moment  away  from  the  one 
subject  in  which  the  financier  was  at  home  he  dropped 
at  once  into  a  lower  place,  and  sat  awkwardly  silent ;  or, 
if  he  shouldered  his  way  into  the  conversation,  stood 
plainly  revealed  as  a  man  of  little  education,  in  no  way 
the  equal  of  those  in  whose  society  he  found  himself. 
William  Page's  heart  bled  with  silent  pity  over  the  lapses 
of  one  who  in  other  ways  had  raised  himself  so  high. 
"  There  is  nothing  I  couldn't  teach  him,"  he  said  to  him- 
self towards  the  end  of  the  dinner.  "  And  he  could  take 
his  place  with  any  of  them." 

And,  indeed,  the  man  was  not  lacking  in  the  sort  of 
appearance  that  commands  respect.  He  was  even  hand- 
some, with  his  iron-grey  hair,  dark  predatory  eyes  and 
eagle-like  face,  and  carried  his  close-upon-sixty  years 
with  an  upright,  self-assured  manner.  Nor  did  his 
riches  betray  themselves  in  an  outre  gorgeousness  of  at- 
tire. He  was  correctly  dressed.  In  a  world  in  which 
wealth  is  allowed  to  gild  downright  vulgarity,  it  was  ob- 
vious to  William  Page  that  such  a  man  would  be  ac- 
cepted without  reserve  when  he  had  once  picked  up  the 
peculiar  kind  of  polish  characteristic  of  his  neighbours. 


78  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

VII 

When  the  guests  departed  William  Page  was  in  the 
hall,  and  himself  helped  the  financier  on  with  his  coat. 
Twice  he  essayed  with  dry  lips  to  make  himself  known, 
and  the  third  time,  just  as  Coombeare,  having  lit  an 
enormous  cigar,  was  about  to  leave  the  house,  managed 
to  stammer  out  in  a  low  voice,  "  Don't  you  know  me, 


sir 


?  » 


Coombeare  swung  around  on  him  instantly,  with  such 
a  look  on  his  face  as  made  him  recoil.  It  might  very 
well  have  been  that  this  successful  man  who  had  fought 
his  way  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  stair  was  sometimes 
confronted  with  ghosts  from  a  hidden  past  whom  he 
would  rather  not  have  seen.  But  it  was  clear  that  the 
grev-haired  servant  standing  before  him  was  not  a  per- 
son to  be  suspicious  of,  and  his  watchful  frowning  look 
changed  to  one  of  blank  bewilderment. 

Page  stood  tremulous  with  excitement,  searching  for 
a  look  of  recognition  in  the  powerful,  hawk-like  face. 

"  William  Page  —  Coombeare,"  he  murmured,  when 
no  such  look  came. 

Then  the  financier's  face  cleared  and  he  laughed  a 
great  laugh. 

"  Bill  Page,  by  all  that's  holy  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  And 
he's  butler  to  a  lord !  " 

The  footmen  in  the  hall  looked  on  in  amazement  as 
their  master's  guest  shook  the  hand  of  their  master's 
servant,  clapping  him  heartily  on  the  back  and  plainly 
showing  unrestrained  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  an  old 
acquaintance.  Leaving  the  guest  standing  in  the  ante- 
room, the  steward  came  back  in  a  few  moments  with 
his  hat  and  coat  and  left  the  house  with  him. 

"  Well,  Bill  Page,"  said  Coombeare,  as  they  walked 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  79 

along  the  pavement  side  by  side,  "  I'm  fifty-eight  and 
you're  fifty-seven,  and  we're  both  where  we  wanted  to  be, 
eh?  Which  of  us  is  top-dog  now  —  William  Page,  the 
butler's  son,  or  Rat-catcher's  Joe?  " 

"  It's  wonderful !  "  said  William  Page.  "  How  did 
you  do  it?  —  Mr.  Joseph,"  he  added,  by  way  of  com- 
promise. 

"  How  did  I  do  it?  Why,  as  I'd  always  meant  to  do 
it.  I  kept  my  eyes  open  for  chances,  and  when  they 
came  I  was  on  top  of  them.  I've  often  gone  cold  and 
hungry,  Bill  Page,  and  that's  more  than  you've  ever 
done,  but  I  never  missed  a  chance." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  risked  your  money  ?  "  said  Wil- 
liam Page. 

"  Risked  it?  Yes  —  risked  it  and  lost  it,  more  than 
once.  I  don't  think  I'm  likely  to  lose  it  again.  I'm 
up  top  now,  and  I'll  keep  there." 

"  Did  you  ever  think  of  old  times  when  you  were  mak- 
ing your  money  ?  "  asked  William  Page. 

The  other  laughed  his  great  laugh. 

"  Many  a  time,"  he  said.  "  You  know  what  I  call 
myself.  I  hadn't  a  name  of  my  own.  And  I  thought  of 
you,  Bill  Page,  and  laughed  many  a  time  at  my  thoughts. 
And  now  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  went  on,  with  an  access 
of  determination.  "  I've  made  my  pile  in  America,  and 
never  let  on  I  wasn't  a  citizen  of  the  States.  But  I'm 
an  Englishman  all  the  time,  and  I'm  going  to  settle 
down  and  spend  my  money  in  the  old  country.  I've 
plenty  to  spend,  and  I  shall  make  more.  I'm  going  to 
be  a  big-wig  myself,  as  I  always  told  you  I  should ;  and 
you  shall  be  my  servant,  Bill  Page,  at  double  your 
wages,  and  help  me." 

What  was  there  about  the  man  that  made  William 
Page  accept  his   offer  as   a  command,  and  without  a 


80  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

thought  of  hesitation  prepare  to  leave  the  service  in 
which  he  had  spent  forty  years  of  his  life,  and  in  which 
lie  had  expected  to  end  his  days?  Not  the  offer  of 
double  wages,  which  he  afterwards  refused. 

VIII 

"  A  month's  notice !  "  exclaimed  the  Duke. 

He  was  sitting  at  a  big  French  writing-table  in  a  room 
half  library,  half  morning-room,  looking  on  to  the  quiet 
garden  of  his  London  house,  and  turned  round  in  amaze- 
ment to  face  his  steward  standing  respectfully  before 
him. 

William  Page  told  him  he  was  going  to  take  service 
with  Mr.  Coombeare. 

"  Mr.  Coombeare!  What  on  earth  for?  Aren't  you 
satisfied  here?  " 

He  was  quite  satisfied,  more  than  satisfied.  He  mum- 
bled words  of  gratitude  and  submission,  and  spoke  of  his 
forty  years'  service. 

His  master  cut  him  short. 

"  Yes,  you've  been  with  me  and  my  father  for  forty 
years,  Page,"  he  said.  "  I  think  you  have  always  been 
treated  well.  What  on  earth  do  you  want  to  leave  for? 
Do  you  want  higher  wages?     Is  that  it?  " 

No,  that  was  not  it.  He  spoke  again  of  gratitude. 
He  was  quite  evidently  distressed;  but  as  evidently  de- 
termined. He  did  not  disclose  his  early  acquaintance 
with  Coombeare.  That  had  been  stipulated.  And  he 
gave  no  other  reason  for  his  decision ;  there  was  no 
other  to  give. 

"  Oli,  very  well,"  said  his  Grace  impatiently  at  last, 
after  he  had  argued,  expostulated,  and  even  pleaded. 
"  You   must  do   as  you  like.      But  I   consider  that  in 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  81 

leaving  me  without  giving  me  any  reason  after  all  these 
years  you  are  guilt}'  of  great  ingratitude.  I  don't 
understand  it."     And  he  turned  again  to  his  table. 

The  accusation  of  ingratitude  cut  William  Page  to 
the  heart.  He  had  a  real  affection  for  his  master.  The 
wrench  was  a  hard  one,  and  he  left  the  service  in  which 
he  had  lived  in  contentment  for  so  many  years  with  a 
heavy  heart. 

"  Now  we'll  begin,"  said  Coombeare. 

IX 

There  are  always  in  the  market  beautiful  houses, 
great  or  small,  upon  which  generations  of  home-lovers 
have  spent  their  care  and  their  money.  A  touch  here 
and  there,  through  scores,  perhaps  hundreds  of  years,  al- 
terations, not  always  very  wise,  but  always  designed 
to  make  the  house  a  more  perfect  expression  of  the  lives 
of  those  who  carry  them  out  —  these  build  the  house 
up  into  something  real  and  living.  And  this  real  and 
living  thing  you  may  buy  for  money. 

Coombeare  bought  Buckley  Court,  the  largest  prop- 
erty then  for  sale  within  two  hours'  rail  of  London. 
It  was  a  glorious  house,  as  big  as  a  college,  full  of 
treasures ;  and  the  price  he  paid  for  it,  as  it  stood,  made 
talk,  which  was  what  he  wanted.  It  had  lovely  old 
gardens,  which  he  scarcely  ever  visited,  and  round  the 
gardens  stretched  a  noble  park  of  beech  and  oak  and 
ferny  glades  and  hollows. 

He  had  the  sense,  under  expert  advice,  to  leave  his 
country  house  as  it  was,  but  the  big  London  house  which 
he  bought  at  the  same  time  he  had  redecorated  and  re- 
furnished from  top  to  bottom,  also  under  expert  ad- 
vice, for  he  took  no  pleasure  in  such  details  as  these. 


82  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

With  such  possessions,  to  which  he  added  a  yacht 
when  he  learnt  that  a  yacht  was  required  of  him,  the 
lever  for  shifting  the  not  very  inert  mass  of  smart  society 
was  in  his  hands,  and  he  used  it  to  considerable  effect. 
He  was  a  great  deal  talked  about,  as  a  man  who  is  lav- 
ish in  spending  apparently  boundless  wealth  for  the 
amusement  of  his  fellows  is  apt  to  he.  and  since  his  am- 
bition for  the  time  being  was  to  cut  a  figure  in  the  world 
of  wealth  and  fashion,  he  may  be  said  to  have  gratified 
it  fully. 

None  of  those  among  the  horde  of  his  new  acquaint- 
ances who  commented  on  the  correct  manners  of  an  ad- 
mittedly self-made  man  could  have  guessed  that  they 
were  the  result  of  detailed  training  by  his  quiet  respect- 
ful servant. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me  saying  so,  sir,  it  is  not  the 
custom  to  allude  to  the  Earl  of  Something  or  the 
Countess  of  Something.  You  say  Lord  Something  or 
Lady  Something.  And  the  same  with  any  nobleman 
under  the  rank  of  a  Duke." 

"Oh,  that's  the  trick,  is  it?  Really,  you  ought  to 
write  a  book,  Page." 

William  Page  would  offer  his  advice  respectfully,  and 
Coombeare  would  receive  it  with  a  good-natured  gibe, 
while  never  failing  to  profit  by  it. 

It  was  never  "  Bill  Page  "  again,  after  the  very  first. 
Coombeare  treated  him  with  rough  geniality  mixed  with 
a  shade  of  the  old  contempt.  He  was  a  servant,  and 
the  fact  that  he  was  a  servant  was  made  more  apparent 
than  it  had  ever  been.  When  the  millionaire  had  once 
learnt  all  thai  he  had  to  learn  the  distance  between  them 
increased.  Only  on  the  rarest  occasions  did  a  word 
pass  between  them  that  had  reference  to  the  past. 

In   the   meantime   William   Page   was   busy   enough. 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  83 

Coombeare's  great  staff  of  servants  under  his  experi- 
enced supervision  was  drilled  into  as  efficient  a  machine 
as  it  would  be  possible  to  find  anywhere. 

"  Don't  know  any  one  who  does  you  better,"  was  the 
common  verdict  on  the  new  millionaire.  "  But  of  course 
he  can  afford  it." 

He  could  afford  to  produce  any  effect,  but  he  could 
not  actually  have  produced  this  one  if  it  had  not  been 
for  William  Page. 

He  knew  that.  It  was  part  of  the  unconscious  art 
he  exercised  to  keep  his  hold  over  his  one-time  play- 
fellow, whom  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  despised,  that 
he  sometimes  made  it  plain  that  he  knew  it. 

"  You've  learnt  something  in  your  life,  Page,"  he  said 
to  him  once.  "  I  can  always  find  use  for  the  men  who 
can  do  one  particular  thing  better  than  other  people. 
You're  worth  money  to  me.  Here's  twenty  pounds  for 
you.     Go  and  waste  it,  if  you've  got  the  pluck." 

William  Page  took  the  bank-note  and  added  it  to  his 
store.  It  was  not  the  place  of  a  servant  to  refuse  money 
gifts  from  his  master.  But  he  would  rather  it  had  not 
been  offered  to  him.  He  had  taught  Coombeare  many 
points  of  good  manners  —  but  to  avoid  hurting  peo- 
ple's feelings  had  not  come  into  his  course  of  tuition. 


William  Page's  situation  was  one  which  most  servants 
would  have  considered  the  most  eminently  satisfactory. 
Money  flowed  into  his  pockets  from  the  master  himself 
and  the  master's  guests,  and  he  was  rapidly  amassing 
what  to  a  man  in  his  position  was  a  considerable  for- 
tune. The  staff  under  him  was  so  large  that  he  was 
neither  obliged  nor  expected  to  do  anything  but  super- 


84  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

vise,  and  he  had  absolute  authority  over  every  servant 
in  the  household. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  material  welfare,  after  the  first 
few  months  of  excitement  he  suffered  continual  bitter- 
ness of  spirit.  His  happiness  and  contentment  had  de- 
parted. He  felt  himself  degraded,  unclassed.  He  had 
lived  all  his  life  of  honourable  service  amongst  those  of 
high  and  assured  position.  He  had  basked  in  the  re- 
flection of  their  greatness,  and  revelled  in  the  security  of 
feeling  which  came  from  the  knowledge  that  in  their 
ordinary  daily  intercourse  with  the  world  they  were 
touched  by  nothing  common  or  unclean.  He  had  felt 
more  conscious  pride  in  his  master's  birthright  than 
his  master  himself. 

In  his  new  position  this  pride  was  his  no  longer.  He 
had  as  many  servants  under  him  as  he  had  ever  had,  the 
houses  in  which  he  lived  were  as  fine  as  those  he  had  left, 
and  the  profusion  of  wealth  in  them  was  greater.  But 
the  inspiration  of  service  had  departed.  Coombeare,  to 
the  eye  of  the  world,  moved  in  the  smartest  of  smart  so- 
ciety, and  was  himself  a  not  unimportant  factor  in  it. 
But  no  one  could  gauge  better  than  William  Page  the 
difference  between  an  intimacy  founded  on  wealth,  and 
to  a  certain  extent  on  community  of  pleasure,  and  that 
which  existed  by  right  of  birth.  It  was  not  an  ac- 
knowledged place  in  Society  that  would  satisfy  him 
for  one  whom  he  served,  it  was  membership  of  an  aris- 
tocracy. He  would  have  been  happier  in  the  house  of 
a  poor  man  related  to  half  the  peerage  than  at  the 
head  of  a  great  establishment  owned  by  an  admitted 
but  usurping  leader  of  fashion. 

It  was  not,  after  all,  the  great  occasions  on  which  the 
house  was  filled  with  guests  of  name  and  place  that  gave 
him    the    aroma    of    cxclusiveness    for    which    his    soul 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  85 

thirsted.  Those  he  had  in  his  new  situation  as  well  as 
his  old.  It  was  the  privacy  of  social  greatness  that  he 
missed,  the  everyday  life  of  the  same  warp  and  woof 
as  the  hours  of  ceremony,  when  great  people  lived  nat- 
urally, but  were  great  people  still,  and  all  their  intimates 
were  great  people. 

He  felt  a  positive  home-sickness  when  he  thought  of 
the  family  life  of  those  whose  service  he  had  left,  of  the 
quiet  days  in  the  stately  country  houses,  of  the  dis- 
tinguished men  and  gracious  ladies,  to  whom  wealth 
and  position  were  a  matter  of  course,  and  not  achieve- 
ments to  be  for  ever  flaunting  in  the  eyes  of  the  world ; 
and  he  thought  of  the  beautiful  children  whom  he  had 
regarded  with  genuine  if  subservient  affection. 

The  quiet  life  did  not  exist  in  Coombeare's  establish- 
ment. If  the  house  was  not  filled  with  men  and  women 
of  the  smart  world,  living  noisily  and  extravagantly, 
all  of  them  desirous  apparently  of  turning  their  visits  to 
some  sort  of  account,  it  was  invaded  by  men  of  Coom- 
beare's own  stamp,  men  upon  whom  William  Page  had 
always  looked  with  contempt,  of  neither  birth  nor  breed- 
ing, and  of  pursuits  as  different  as  possible  from  those 
of  the  class  to  which  he  gave  allegiance.  Never  did  the 
stately  setting  of  Coombeare's  present  life  seem  more 
incongruous  than  when  his  great  country  house  was 
filled  with  loud-voiced  men  who  took  no  pleasure  in  sport 
and  held  as  nothing  the  beauties  that  surrounded  them. 

XI 

"  I'm  going  to  New  York  on  Friday,  Page.  You  will 
come  with  me.     Pack  plenty  of  clothes." 

It  was  five  years  since  William  Page  had  taken  service 
with  his  new  master.     He  was  little  over  sixty,  but  he 


86  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

was  white-haired  and  thin,  an  old  man  now.  The  mil- 
lionaire was  as  strong  and  upright  as  ever,  with  a  face 
slightly  coarsened  by  high  living,  hut  not  otherwise  no- 
ticeably older.  William  Page  was  his  body-servant  now 
1  as  the  head  of  his  household,  and  performed  tasks 
for  him  which  he  would  not  have  thought  of  perform- 
ing for  anybody  five  years  before.  The  one-time  vaga- 
bond needed  as  much  personal  service  as  any  young 
beauty  of  the  aristocratic  world. 

"  America,  sir!  "  he  faltered.  "  But  there's  the  din- 
ner on  Friday,  and  the  ball." 

"  I've  put  them  off.      Don't  talk.      Do  as  you're  told." 

He  spoke  brutally,  with  a  frown  of  his  bushy  eye- 
brows. He  was  dressing  for  the  evening  in  a  great 
room  with  an  elaborate  Empire  bed,  soft  carpet,  silken 
curtains,  and  a  dressing-table  crowded  with  silver  and 
cut-glass.  William  Page  was  preparing  to  kneel  down 
and  tic  his  shoe-laces. 

As  he  did  so  he  tried  to  summon  up  courage  to  refuse 
to  go  to  America,  to  refuse  any  longer  to  continue  in 
the  service  of  a  man  who  treated  him  ill.  Put  the  words 
would  not  come.  He  dreaded  the  explosion  of  wrath 
that  would  follow  —  a  violent,  contemptuous,  wounding 
wrath,  of  which  he  had  had  experience.  The  man 
dominated  him.  He  was  afraid  of  him.  Put  sometimes 
he  threw  him  a  kind  word  and  alluded  to  their  child- 
hood.    His  fear  was  merged  in  his  devotion. 

Coombeare  stood  up  before  the  glass  and  tied  his  tie 
carefully. 

"  I've  had  enough  of  it,"  he  said.  "  It's  too  easy. 
I'm  going  to  cut  the  whole  business.  There  will  be 
somebody  to  fight  over  there." 

"  Are  you  intending  to  stay  there,  sir?  " 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  87 

"What's  that  to  you?  Do  what  you're  told,  and 
don't  ask  questions." 

William  Page  did  not  go  to  America  after  all.  Coom- 
beare  told  him  that  he  was  too  old  to  be  of  any  use.  He 
would  take  one  of  the  footmen.  Page  could  stay  be- 
hind and  dismiss  most  of  the  servants,  and  engage  others 
when  his  master  decided  to  return. 

He  had  six  months  of  peace.  He  went  down  to  the 
village  where  he  had  been  born.  He  was  treated  with 
great  respect.  His  father's  master  was  dead,  and  his 
son  reigned  in  his  stead  —  a  middle-aged  man  whom 
William  Page  had  known  and  played  with  as  a  child. 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  back  here  to  me,  William," 
he  said. 

Here  was  the  old  man's  chance.  He  was  out  of  reach 
of  Coombeare's  cruel  tongue.  He  might  have  gained 
his  freedom  by  writing.     He  did  not  take  the  chance. 

When  Coombeare  returned  from  America  it  was  to 
immerse  himself  once  more  in  great  financial  undertak- 
ings. He  had  grown  tired  of  spending  his  money,  and 
took  a  fierce  delight  in  increasing  it.  He  lived  mostly 
in  London,  and  worked  as  hard  in  the  City  as  a  poor 
clerk.  He  treated  the  parasitic  section  of  the  upper 
classes,  which,  after  all,  was  the  only  section  with  which 
he  had  maintained  intimate  relations,  with  undisguised 
contempt.  They  besieged  him  all  the  more,  but  he 
lived  now  chiefly  amongst  men  interested  in  the  same 
pursuits  as  himself. 

He  sold  his  country  house.  When  he  wanted  a  holi- 
day he  went  to  Paris  or  the  South  of  France.  One  au- 
tumn he  took  a  moor  in  Scotland.  He  went  to  America 
six  times  in  five  years. 

The  luxury  with  which  he  had  surrounded  himself 


ss  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

since  hi-*  accession  to  wealth  had  become  necessary  to 
him,  hut  it  developed  into  a  coarse  luxury  of  eating  and 
drinking,  and  worse.  After  a  time  no  lady  went  to 
Coombeare's  house. 

Once,  after  a  scandalous  evening  of  revelry,  William 
Page  summoned  up  courage  to  give  notice.  Coombeare 
spoke  to  him  kindly. 

"  You  wen-  always  strait-laced,  Bill  Page,"  he  said, 
with  a  rather  shamefaced  smile.  "  But  you  won't  de- 
sert a  friend  after  all  these  years,  will  you?  It  shan't 
happen  again  —  not  here." 

And  William  Page  stayed  on. 

XII 

Coombeare  was  alone  in  the  room  he  called  his  li- 
brary. It  was  long  past  midnight.  In  the  great  hall 
outside  William  Page  sat  by  the  fire,  or  walked  up  and 
down  on  the  thick  carpet.  His  hands  trembled  inces- 
santly; more  than  once  a  tear  ran  down  his  old  face. 

He  did  not  dare  to  leave  his  post.  He  had  waited 
alone  on  his  master  at  dinner  hours  before  to  a  running 
accompaniment  of  oaths  and  jeers.  A  dozen  times  since 
he  had  been  summoned  to  the  room,  where  he  sat  at  a 
table  loaded  with  papers,  drinking  heavily,  to  replenish 
the  fire,  to  pour  out  more  spirit  for  him,  to  light  his 
cigar,  to  perform  half  a  dozen  menial  offices  which  he 
could  just  as  well  have  performed  for  himself.  And 
every  time  he  had  gone  in  he  had  been  sworn  at,  treated 
with  contempt  and  insult.  It  took  him  a  minute  or  so 
to  hurry  from  the  lower  parts  of  the  house  when  sum- 
moned, and  Coombeare  had  ordered  him  to  stay  out- 
side  the  room,  and  to  come  at  once  when  called. 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  89 

The  shadow  of  unknown  calamity  hung  over  the 
house.  Coombeare  had  been  drinking  heavily  for 
a  week  or  more.  His  temper  had  been  frightful. 
One  by  one  the  servants  who  came  in  contact  with 
him  had  left,  and  William  Page  had  been  ordered  not 
to  replace  them.  He  himself  was  in  constant  attend- 
ance night  and  day.  He  was  old.  He  could  stand  it 
no  longer. 

He  would  say  the  word  that  would  set  him  free  that 
night.  He  had  given  ten  years'  faithful  service  to  this 
low-bred,  domineering  brute.  As  he  sat  by  the  fire  he 
thought  of  his  old  life,  when  he  was  happy  and  respected. 
He  had  given  it  all  up  to  serve  the  whims  of  a  man 
who  treated  him  no  better  than  a  dog,  which  he  might 
have  liked  to  have  with  him,  and  yet  taken  pleasure  in 
ill-treating. 

He  had  tried  to  stand  between  him  and  the  ruin  that 
he  saw  coming  from  his  rapidly-deteriorating  habits, 
and  had  been  cursed  for  his  pains.  He  could  do  no 
more.  He  was  worn  out.  He  was  independent  now, 
and  could  spend  the  years  that  remained  to  him  in  peace- 
ful retirement.     He  must  not  delay. 

Coombeare's  thick  voice  was  heard  calling  him.  He 
started  up  with  a  frightened  look  and  hurried  to  the 
door.  When  he  came  out  of  the  room  again  the  word 
that  would  set  him  free  had  not  been  spoken. 

This  happened  three  times.  His  tongue  refused  to 
release  him. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when,  haggard, 
tottering,  and  white-faced,  he  was  summoned  for  the 
last  time.  The  room  was  unbearably  hot.  Coombeare 
sat  in  his  shirt-sleeves  at  his  writing-table,  where  he  had 
sat  for  six  hours  with  his  papers  before  him.  He  looked 
frightful;  the  veins  stood  out  on  his  temples   and  on 


90  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

his  thick  neck,  his  face  was  purple.  He  emptied  the 
spirit  decanter  by  his  side. 

"  Take  off  my  boots,"  he  said,  as  he  had  said  once 
many  years  before. 

William  Page  knelt  down  submissively  to  do  his  bid- 
ding, but,  almost  at  the  end  of  his  strength,  he  fumbled 
at  the  buttons  uselessly. 

"  Curse  you  for  a  clumsy  fool !  "  shouted  Coombeare, 
and  kicked  him. 

He  got  up  slowly,  his  face  very  white,  his  whole  body 
shaking.  "  I  wish  to  leave  your  service  tomorrow 
morning,  sir,"  he  said. 

Coombeare  rose  slowly,  his  eyes  all  the  time  fixed  upon 
his  servant  with  a  sort  of  stifled  glare  of  fury  that  ter- 
rified him  unutterably.  He  stood  with  his  hand  on  the 
table,  swaying  slightly.  They  confronted  one  another 
for  a  time  that  seemed  very  long.  Then  Coombeare 
opened  his  mouth  to  speak.  The  old  man  uttered  a  cry, 
for  no  words  came,  but  a  terrible  distortion  of  face,  and 
Coombeare  fell  on  to  the  floor  in  a  fit,  and  lay  there. 

XIII 

A  year  later  William  Page  sat  by  Coombeare's  bed  in 
the  great  prison  infirmary,  clean,  bare  and  sad. 

Coombeare's  wealth  had  collapsed  like  a  house  of 
rotten  bricks,  and  his  downfall  had  caused  ruin  to  thou- 
sands. He  had  been  nursed  back  painfully  to  stand 
his  trial.  Those  who  cried  aloud  for  his  punishment 
would  have  dragged  him  from  his  bed  to  the  dock,  and 
he  had  never  actually  recovered.  When  he  was  sen- 
tenced to  twelve  years'  penal  servitude  a  savage  howl 
of  self-gratulation  went  up  from  those  who  had  fol- 
lowed him  blindly  and  come  to  grief  in  doing  so. 


A  SON  OF  SERVICE  91 

He  had  had  another  stroke,  and  had  lain  for  months 
in  the  infirmary.  His  powerful  physique  would  not  al- 
low him  to  die,  but  there  was  no  hope  of  his  complete 
recovery. 

William  Page,  frail  and  bent,  sat  by  him,  holding  his 
hand.  The  man's  dark  eyes,  as  keen  as  ever  in  his 
battered  face,  were  fixed  on  his  old  friend  in  piteous  ap- 
peal. 

"  Take  me  away,  Bill,"  he  whispered,  speaking  with 
great  difficulty.  "  Take  me  down  to  the  old  place. 
Don't  leave  me  here  where  I  can't  see  the  sky." 

"  It  won't  be  long  now,  Joe,"  answered  William  Page. 
"  His  lordship  has  been  very  good.  He's  never  left 
off  working  to  get  you  free.  They'll  let  you  go  soon, 
and  I'll  take  you  away.  No  one  will  know  who  you  are. 
They  have  let  me  take  a  little  house,  Joe,  the  one  Mrs. 
Cullen  lived  in,  hard  by  the  church,  with  the  roses. 
You  remember.  We'll  be  happy  there  —  happy  and 
free ;  and  everything  that's  gone  forgotten." 

The  appealing  eyes  remained  fixed  on  him. 

"  You've  been  good  to  me,  Bill,"  the  slow  voice  went 
on.  "  That  last  night  when  I  treated  you  badly  I  wanted 
you  near  me.  I  wanted  to  feel  you  were  there  all  the 
time.     I'm  sorry  I  treated  you  so  ill." 

The  tears  stood  in  old  William  Page's  eyes. 

"  That's  all  forgotten  now,  Joe." 

XIV 

In  the  West  Country  village  where  the  two  boys  played 
many  years  ago  two  old  men  are  living  together.  One 
of  them,  paralysed  and  penniless,  is  entirely  dependent 
on  the  other. 

They  live  in  a  pretty  cottage,  and  are  waited  on  by 


92  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

an  obliging,  middle-aged  woman,  who  makes  them  very 
comfortable.  Her  son  looks  after  the  garden  and  the 
donkey  that  draws  the  invalid's  chair  about  the  country 
lanes,  the  other  old  man  walking  by  its  side.  Sometimes 
the  great  people  from  the  castle  hard  by  visit  them, 
for  the  owner  of  the  cottage  is  greatly  respected.  He 
is  known  to  have  been  in  the  highest  service,  and  to 
have  amassed  a  considerable  sum. 

The  invalid  who  is  dependent  on  him  commands  no  re- 
spect. There  are  other  old  men  in  the  village,  and  old 
women  too,  who  remember  him  as  a  ragged  outcast 
boy,  not  at  all  the  equal  of  his  benefactor  in  station. 
It  is  a  matter  of  continual  wonder  to  the  gossips  that 
William  Page  in  his  old  age  can  burden  himself  with 
such  trash  as  Rat-catcher's  Joe. 


"IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE" 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  " 


LORD  KIMMERIDGE  came  through  the  garden 
door,  and  looked  about  him. 
It  was  twelve  o'clock  on  a  fine  June  morn- 
ing, and  at  twelve  o'clock  on  any  morning,  fine  or  not, 
he  was  generally  at  work  in  his  laboratory.  He  wished 
himself  there  now ;  he  was  engaged  in  experiments  of  ab- 
sorbing interest,  and  counted  all  time  wasted  that  was 
not  devoted  to  them.  Scientific  investigation  was  Lord 
Kimmeridge's  passion,  and  considering  his  age,  which 
was  no  more  than  thirty,  he  had  won  for  himself  con- 
siderable fame,  as  the  owner  of  an  original  and  daring 
mind  and  a  man  who  was  likely  to  go  far. 

Peering  with  short-sighted  eyes  over  such  of  the 
beautiful  garden  of  Steynes  Park  as  was  visible  from 
where  he  stood,  and  not  finding  what  he  was  looking  for, 
he  took  the  path  that  ran  along  by  the  house,  and  gave 
only  one  small  sigh  at  the  thought  of  what  lay  before 
him. 

He  made  his  way  through  a  gateway  in  an  old  brick 
wall,  and  found  himself  in  another  garden;  but  what 
he  was  looking  for  was  not  there  either,  so  he  went  on, 
between  the  espaliered  apple  trees  and  the  borders  of 
irises,  to  another  archway  in  yet  another  brick  wall. 

It  was  not  often  that  he  was  called  upon  to  sacrifice 
any  of  the  valuable  morning  hours  to  duties  that  lay 
outside  his  chosen  work.  His  mother  took  nearly  all 
such  duties  off  his  hands, —  she  and  Mr.  Brydon,  the 

95 


96  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

agent,  unci  Mr.  Clark,  the  Rector.  He  had  been  allowed 
to  go  his  own  way  since  very  early  days. 

Hi  had  succeeded  to  his  title  at  the  age  of  fourteen, 
during  his  first  year  at  Eton,  where  he  had  already  be- 
gun to  strike  ou'  a  line  of  his  own.  He  had  been  an 
unmitigated  "  scug  "  at  school.  He  had  thought  about 
nothing  but  work,  and  had  not  been  made  quite  so 
happy  as  he  might  have  been  as  a  lower  boy.  But  he 
had  ended  by  being  very  well  liked.  Character  tells, 
even  in  a  society  so  exacting  of  orthodox  tastes  and 
pursuits  as  that  of  a  public  school ;  and  because  he 
had  never  faltered  in  a  single  one  of  the  tastes  and 
pursuits  that  he  followed  on  his  own  account,  he  had 
at  last  been  left  in  peace,  as  a  harmless  but  amiable 
crank  with  something  up  his  sleeve  for  the  future. 

All  his  forbears  who  had  gone  on  to  a  university  had 
been  at  Oxford.  He  expressed  a  wish  to  go  to  Man- 
chester, or  to  a  German  University,  but  compromised  on 
Cambridge,  where  he  found  himself  happy,  took  all  the 
honours  available  in  his  branches  of  study,  and  oegan 
to  make  his  reputation  in  the  scientific  world.  After 
that,  he  made  the  best  of  his  peculiar  circumstances, 
fitted  himself  up  a  laboratory  at  Steynes  Park,  and, 
except  for  occasional  journeys  to  various  seats  of 
learning  at  home  and  abroad,  had  remained  there  ever 
since. 

He  had  no  brothers  or  sisters ;  but  a  little  girl  who 
had  lost  her  mother  —  a  cousin  of  Lady  Kinnneridge's 
—  spent  much  of  her  time  at  Steynes  Park.  Her  name 
was  Angela  Luttrell,  and  she  was  about  nine  years 
younger  than  Kimmeridge. 

It  was  she  whom  he  was  looking  for  now.  His  mother 
had  told  him  that  she  was  somewhere  in  the  garden. 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  97 

She  had  also  suggested  that  he  should  ask  her  to  marry 
him ;  and  he  was  going  to  do  so. 

In  a  corner  of  the  second  brick-walled  garden  was 
a  glass-house  in  which  he  was  carrying  out  certain 
plant-fertilizing  experiments.  As  Angela  was  not  any- 
where in  sight,  he  went  into  this  house  just  for  one 
peep,  and  remained  there  for  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  deeply  interested.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he 
came  out  again,  and  continued  his  search.  He  was 
extremely  conscientious,  and  when  a  duty  had  to  be  done 
he  lost  as  little  time  as  possible  in  getting  it  over. 

He  found  her  at  last  sitting  by  the  lily  pool,  with  a 
book.  If  he  had  ever  thought  about  such  things  at  all, 
he  would  have  thought  now  what  a  very  pretty  picture 
she  would  have  made,  in  her  soft  white  frock  and  her  big 
hat.  And  when  he  got  nearer  to  her,  in  spite  of  his 
short  sight,  he  might,  without  any  disloyalty  to  what- 
ever goddess  watches  over  the  investigations  of  an  ar- 
dent biologist,  have  admired  unreservedly  a  face  and 
figure  of  which  no  goddess  imagined  by  man  in  the 
springtime  of  the  world  need  have  been  ashamed.  But 
he  only  saw  a  girl  whom  he  liked  as  well  as  any  girl, — 
if  he  could  be  said  to  like  any  girls  at  all, —  a  distant 
cousin,  whose  distance  he  was  ready,  if  she  should  wish 
it,  to  reduce  by  all  the  degrees  that  lay  between  them. 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  at  him.  "  Henry !  "  she 
exclaimed,  "  What  ever  are  you  doing  out  of  doors  at 
this  time  of  the  morning?  " 

He  sat  down  on  the  seat  on  which  she  was  sitting, 
—  at  the  other  end  of  it, —  crossed  his  knees,  and  put 
his  hand  on  the  back  of  the  bench,  but  not  with  any  idea 
of  reaching  her  with  it. 

"  My  dear  Angela,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  to  find 
you.     I  have  a  proposal  to  make  to  you." 


98  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

She  looked  away  suddenly,  and  the  pink  of  her  cheek 
deepened  to  rose.  Then  she  ljoked  up  at  him,  and 
smiled  again. 

"  Yes?  "  she  said. 

He  took  off  his  glasses,  wiped  them,  and  put  them  on 
again.  "  My  mother  thinks  it  is  time  I  thought  of  being 
married,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  quite  agree  with  her  that  if 
it  is  to  be  done  at  all  it  had  better  be  done  at  once." 

"  Yes,  Henry?  "  she  said  again. 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  He  was  very  conscientious. 
He  wanted  to  do  the  thing  well,  but  he  had  so  little  ex- 
perience to  go  upon. 

"Well,  will  you?  "he  asked. 

"Will  I  what,  Henry?" 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Angela?  " 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Henry ;  but  I  think  not." 

"Oh!" 

There  was  another  short  pause.  What  did  one  do 
at  this  point? 

"  My  mother  quite  thought  you  would,"  he  said. 
"  At  least,  she  gave  me  that  impression.  I  quite  under- 
stood from  her  that  she  thought  you  would." 

Another  pause. 

"You  say  no,  definitely,  Angela?" 

"  I  say  no,  definitely,  Henry." 

"Oh!" 

He  seemed  a  little  surprised, —  not  disturbed  at  all 
—  a  little  puzzled  as  to  what  to  say  next. 

She  came  to  his  rescue.  She  looked  into  his  plain  but 
not  unattractive  face,  with  its  firm  mouth  and  high 
white  forehead,  from  which  the  hair  was  beginning  to  re- 
cede, and   smiled   again. 

"  You  don't  want  to  marry  me  very  much,  do  you, 
Henry?  "  she  asked. 


« IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  99 

"  My  dear  Angela,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  a  question  of 
what  I  want.  My  mother  has  pointed  out  to  me  that 
in  my  position,  as  the  head  of  a  respectable  family  and 
the  owner  of  landed  property,  with  no  one  to  succeed 
me,  it  is  my  duty  to  marry ;  and  I  am  quite  read}'  to  do 
my  duty." 

"  Is  that  all,  Henry?     It  is  only  a  matter  of  duty?  " 

"  A  pleasant  duty,"  he  said  courteously,  looking  at  her 
with  a  smile  that  made  his  face  almost  handsome. 
"  Most  of  the  duties  connected  with  my  position  as  a 
landowner  are  not  so  pleasan';.  I  wish  I  could  get  rid 
of  them  altogether.  Still,  there  they  are ;  and  they  must 
be  taken  into  account." 

He  discoursed  for  some  little  time  on  the  distractions 
to  scientific  work  brought  about  by  the  peculiar  posi- 
tion in  which  he  was  situated,  and  gave  her  to  under- 
stand that  if  she  could  see  her  way  to  reconsidering  her 
decision  he  should  feel  much  relieved,  and  could  after- 
wards take  up  his  work  with  the  prospect  of  continuing 
it  uninterrupted  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  also  told 
her  handsomely  that  he  had  grown  so  used  to  her  pres- 
ence at  Steynes  Park  that  whenever  she  was  away  he 
missed  her,  and  that  his  mother  felt  the  same,  perhaps 
even  more  strongly.  This  was  the  nearest  he  got  to 
a  declaration  of  personal  interest  in  her. 

She  listened  to  him  without  interruption,  always  with 
the  smile  on  her  face,  affectionate  and  mocking  at  the 
same  time.  When  he  had  quite  finished,  she  said,  "  Well, 
thank  you  very  much  indeed,  Henry ;  but  I  am  afraid 
I  cannot  marry  you." 

She  said  it  with  an  air  of  decision  that  put  an  end 
to  his  very  slight  pressure  of  her.  He  gave  a  little 
sigh,  and  said,  "  Well,  I  should  have  liked  it  if  it  had 
been  possible."     Then  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said, 


100         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  If  you  have  quite  made  up  your  mind,  I  won't  take  up 
any  more  of  your  time,  Angela.  I  will  get  baek  to  my 
work.     There  is  a  clear  hour  before  luncheon." 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her.  She  looked  up  at  him, 
and  said,  "  You  don't  mind  my  saying  '  no  '  very  much, 
do  you,  Henry  ?  " 

"  Not  very  much,  my  dear,"  he  said  with  that  regard 
for  strict  truth  that  characterized  him.  "  Still,  I 
would  rather  you  had  said  '  yes.'  " 

With  that  he  left  her,  and  she  looked  after  him  as  he 
walked  quickly  away  across  the  grass,  with  the  student's 
stoop  already  fixed  in  his  bearing.  Her  smile  still  lin- 
gered, but  it  had  lost  its  mocking  quality,  and  now  only 
held  affection,  and  perhaps  a  little  regret. 

II 

The  three  of  them  met  at  the  luncheon  table. 

Lady  Kimmeridge  was  there  first.  She  never  waited 
for  her  son,  and  she  never  sent  to  remind  him  that  a 
meal  was  ready.  It  would  be  difficult  to  rate  too  highly 
this  almost  daily  act  of  self-suppression;  for  she  hated 
unpunctuality  and  disorder  of  all  kinds. 

Angela  was  almost  as  invariably  punctual  as  she  was; 
and  because  she  was  late  today  Lady  Kimmeridge  quite 
thought  that,  she  was  with  her  son.  They  came  in  to- 
gether, having  met  by  chance  in  the  hall,  and  they  were 
talking  so  unconstrainedly  that,  after  one  searching 
glance  at  them,  she  allowed  herself  to  believe  that  what 
she  had  so  long  desired  had  at  last  come  to  pass,  and 
showed  her  pleasure  so  plainly  —  to  Angela  —  that  the 
girl  ran  away  directly  luncheon  was  over. 

Kimmeridge   sat   on   for   a   few   minutes,   smoking  a 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  101 

cigarette,  and  talking  about  the  work  on  which  he  was 
engaged.  Lady  Kimmeridge  always  encouraged  him 
to  talk  about  his  work.  She  had  no  temperamental 
leanings  towards  science,  but  she  was  a  clever  woman, 
and  quite  capable,  after  ten  years  or  so  of  practice,  of 
saying  the  things  necessary  to  indicate  that  she  was 
interested  in  his  pursuits. 

But  now,  as  he  talked  on,  oblivious  of  her  state  of 
expectation,  she  eyed  him  impatiently.  Angela's  run- 
ning away  directly  the  servants  had  left  the  room  had 
struck  at  her  confidence.  What  could  have  happened? 
She  could  wait  to  know  no  longer. 

"  Henry,"  she  said,  interrupting  him.  "  I  hope  you 
took  my  advice." 

He  looked  at  her  blankly.  She  had  to  say  plainly, 
"  Did  you  speak  to  Angela?  "  before  he  called  to  mind 
the  occurrence  of  the  morning. 

Even  then  he  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  as  if  he 
could  not  quite  remember  what  the  conversation  had 
been  about.  "  Oh,  you  mean  about  her  marrying  me, 
mother.  Yes,  I  did.  Yes,  certainly  I  did.  She  re- 
fused me.     I  regret  to  say  that  she  refused  me." 

Poor  Lady  Kimmeridge  looked  sadly  crestfallen. 
She  saw  at  once  how  it  had  been,  and  once  again  she 
put  strong  control  over  herself. 

She  had  had  to  do  it  so  often.  She  knew  so  well  what 
it  was  to  take  every  possible  pains  to  lead  him  up  to  a 
point,  and  to  spare  him  all  trouble  in  the  first  difficult 
steps,  and  then,  when  it  rested  with  him  to  take  the  one 
little  one  that  she  could  not  take  for  him,  to  have  all  her 
carefully  laid  plans  brought  to  naught. 

Well,  he  was  like  that.  Nothing  she  could  do  or  say 
would  alter  him.     So  she  did  and  said  nothing  on  such 


102         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

ions,  but  began  a!l  her  work  over  again.  She  was 
a  woman  whose  wisdom  and  self-controi  amounted  al- 
most to  inspiration. 

She  let  him  go  now  without  a  word  of  reproach.  All 
she  said  was,  "  I  am  sorry,  Henry.  We  must  think  out 
a  plan." 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother,"  he  said,  rising  from  the  table. 
"  I  quite  agree  with  you;  now  you  have  opened  my  eyes 
to  my  responsibilities,  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  I 
ought  to  get  married.  We  will  think  out  a  plan,  as  you 
say." 

Then  he  left  her,  and  forgot  all  about  it  by  the  time  he 
had  reached  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

Angela  left  Steynes  Park  a  few  days  later.  Now 
that  she  was  grown  up,  she  sometimes  joined  her  father 
in  his  incessant  wanderings.  She  was  his  only  child, 
and  a  considerable  heiress.  Lady  Kimmeridge  never 
said  good-bye  to  her  without  an  uncomfortable  premoni- 
tion of  disaster.  It  was  not  within  reason  that  a  girl 
so  charming,  and  so  matrimonially  desirable,  should 
remain  single  much  longer.  This  time,  as  she  fondly 
kissed  her  farewell,  she  felt  as  if  she  must  surely  be 
losing  her  altogether. 

And  yet,  there  was  a  glimpse  of  hope.  Angela  had 
said  nothing  to  her  of  what  had  happened  that  morning 
in  the  garden,  but  she  could  not  divest  her  mind  of  a 
suspicion  that  their  ultimate  desires  were  the  same. 
Otherwise,  why  should  Angela  have  gone  away  at  all? 
She  had  come  with  the  idea  of  staying  through  the  sum- 
mer. No  doubt  she  felt  that  the  situation  was  awkward 
for  her:  but  Kimmeridge  did  nothing  to  make  it  awk- 
ward. He  had  apparently  forgotten  all  about  the  pro- 
posal, and  was  the  same  as  always  towards  Angela, 
evidently    liking   to  have  her   there  when   he   emerged 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  103 

from  his  scientific  absorption,  and  exhibiting  not  the 
smallest  sign  of  diffidence  before  her.  Lady  Kimmeridge 
felt  that  if  Angela  had  taken  the  affair  as  lightly  as  he 
had,  she  would  have  stayed  on. 

But  she  had  fled.  Therefore  she  did  not  take  it 
lightly. 

Ill 

Lady  Kimmeridge  was  used  to  entertaining  scientists 
at  Steynes  Park.  She  had  played  hostess  to  all  sorts, 
old  and  young,  famous  or  obscure.  Sometimes  they 
stayed  for  one  night,  sometimes  for  weeks  together ; 
sometimes  they  came  singly,  sometimes  in  batches. 
Some  were  easy  to  entertain,  some  were  difficult,  some 
were  impossible. 

But  among  all  the  varieties  of  scientists  of  whom  she 
had  had  experience,  it  so  happened  that  she  had  never 
hitherto  been  asked  to  receive  one  of  her  own  sex,  al- 
though she  knew  that  such  existed. 

Kimmeridge  told  her  one  morning  that  Dr.  Margaret 
Platter  was  coming  to  stay  for  a  week  or  two,  to  help 
him  with  certain  experiments.  In  answer  to  her  in- 
quiries, he  said  that  he  had  corresponded  with  her  fre- 
quently, and  met  her  once.  She  had  an  extraordinary 
grasp  —  for  a  woman.  He  supposed  she  was  what 
might  be  called  young.  Yes;  now  he  was  asked  the 
question,  she  certainly  was  not  old.  A  lady?  Oh,  yes, 
certainly  a  lady.  He  did  not  suppose  she  would  want 
much  looking  after,  when  they  were  not  at  work  to- 
gether. They  had  experiments  to  make  that  would 
keep  them  pretty  well  occupied.  If  he  were  his  mother 
he  should  not  worry  about  her  at  all  —  just  leave  her 
to  go  her  own  way. 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter  oarae,  and  Lady  Kimmeridge 


104  THE  (LIN TONS,  AND  OTHERS 

felt  a  sense  of  relief  on  the  first  sight  of  her.  She  was 
not  at  all  impossible!  She  was  a  large  rather  hand- 
sonic  young  woman,  with  a  grave  sensible  face,  quiet- 
mannered,  quietly  dressed}  self-assured,  but  not  eager 
to  push  into  intimacy.  Her  well-developed  brain  was 
more  in  evidence  than  her  well-developed  body,  and  the 
scientific  studies  with  which  it  seemed  to  be  chiefly  oc- 
cupied did  not  engross  it  to  the  exclusion  of  other  in- 
terests. She  and  Kimmeridge  talked  together  during 
the  dinner  that  followed  her  arrival,  and  of  course  about 
science.  But  she  also  talked  to  Lady  Kimmeridge 
upon  other  subjects,  and  showed  herself  a  woman  of  wide 
reading,  who  had  ideas  about  literature,  and  about  art, 
and,  indeed,  about  most  things  that  were  going  on  in  the 
world. 

Lady  Kimmeridge  enjoyed  her  conversation  more  than 
she  usually  enjoyed  that  of  her  son's  fellow-workers. 
But  she  did  not  like  Dr.  Margaret  Platter. 

She  could  hardly  have  told  why.  It  was  not  because 
she  spoke  with  a  very  slight  cockney  accent,  and  was 
not  quite  of  the  class  that  Lady  Kimmeridge  had  had  in 
her  mind  when  she  had  asked  if  she  were  a  lady.  She 
would  not  have  quarrelled  with  any  one  who  had  chosen 
to  call  her  so;  class  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She 
would  alwa3Ts  have  preferred  the  society  of  an  intelli- 
gent woman  with  no  claims  to  birth  to  that  of  one  of 
her  own  rank  with  few  claims  to  intelligence:  and  in  any 
case,  no  objection  could  have  been  brought  either 
against  Dr.  Margaret  Platter's  manners  or  her  ap- 
pearance. 

In  another  respect,  also,  she  was  beyond  reproaeh. 
She  never  once  showed  herself  unpleasantly  conscious 
of  the  rank  of  her  host  and  hostess,  and  this  had  not 
always  been  the  case  with  men  of  learning  invited  to 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  105 

Steynes  Park.  She  was  there  for  a  definite  purpose, 
and  she  never  seemed  to  forget  what  that  purpose 
was. 

In  fact,  Lady  Kimmeridge  could  find  no  fault  with  her 
at  all ;  and  yet  she  did  not  like  her. 

But  Kimmeridge  did.  He  judged  her,  of  course,  en- 
tirely by  her  brain,  which  was  the  only  thing  he  ever 
judged  anybody  by;  and  about  the  quality  of  her  brain 
there  could  be  no  two  opinions.  His  work  progressed, 
with  her  to  help  him,  as  it  had  never  progressed  be- 
fore, and  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  of  their 
labours  together  his  appreciation  of  her  brought  him 
to  the  point  of  a  proposal  of  marriage. 

It  was  done  quite  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  They 
had  been  absorbed  in  their  work  for  hours,  and  were 
standing  at  one  of  the  windows  of  the  laboratory,  dis- 
cussing what  they  had  done,  and  making  plans  for  the 
morrow.  Kimmeridge  was  in  a  pleasurable  state  of  ex- 
citement, and  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  was  pleased  too, 
although  she  expressed  her  pleasure  less  freely.  It 
struck  him  that  nothing  ought  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
their  working  together  continuously ;  and,  as  his  brain 
always  moved  at  lightning  speed,  it  struck  him  the 
next  moment  that  marriage  would  provide  the  desirable 
tie,  and  that,  his  mother  wanted  him  to  get  married. 

So  he  said  at  once :  "  Miss  Platter,  no  man  and 
woman  have  ever  had  so  much  in  common  as  you  and  I. 
Will  you  do  me  the  honour  of  becoming  my  wife?  " 

Naturally,  she  was  startled.  She  lost  colour  and 
gained  colour,  and  had  for  the  moment  nothing  to  say. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  Kimmeridge,  warming  to  the 
idea,  now  that  it  had  once  found  entrance  into  his 
brain,  "  that  it  would  be  an  admirable  arrangement. 
If  you  agreed,  I  should  propose  that  we  should  get  mar- 


106         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

ried  immediately,  with  as  little  fuss  as  possible,  and 
settle  down  to  carry  out  those  experiments  of  which 
we  haw  been  talking.  They  will  keep  us  busy  for 
months,  perhaps  for  years;  and  we  should  enjoy  our- 
selves immensely.      How  does  it  strike  you?  " 

She  was  already  mistress  of  herself  again.  Kimmer- 
idge  had  been  looking  into  her  face  all  the  time  he  had 
been  speaking,  but  he  had  seen  nothing  of  her  mo- 
mentary confusion.  He  felt  none  himself,  Angela  had 
shown  none  when  he  had  put  the  question  to  her,  and  he 
expected  none  from  a  woman  so  eminently  sensible  as 
Dr.  Margaret  Platter. 

So  when  she  answered  him  in  a  level  voice:  "  Thank 
you,  Lord  Kimmeridge,  I  will  think  it  over,''  he  felt  that 
matters  were  progressing  favourably.  Of  course,  she 
must  have  time  to  think  it  over.  That  was  only  rea- 
sonable. But  the  proposal  was  so  evidently  a  suitable 
one  that  it  was  unlikely  she  would  see  it  in  any  other 
light. 

"There's  no  hurry,"  he  said  kindly;  "no  hurry  at 
all.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  talk  it  over  with  my 
mother.  She  will  be  delighted  at  the  idea,  and  these 
things  are  perhaps  more  for  women  to  settle  between 
themselves  than  for  men. 

There  was  the  hint  of  a  smile  about  the  corners  of 
Dr.  Margaret  Platter's  firm  mouth.  She  was  not  likely 
to  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  Lady  Kimmeridge 
would  hi'  delighted  with  the  idea.  She  said:  "I  think 
I  would  rather  you  did  not  say  anything  to  her,  or  to 
anybody,  until  I  have  given  you  my  answer." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  he  said.  "I  will  do  exactly  what 
you  wish  in  the  matter.  And  don't  let  it  worry  you  at 
all.  If  you  would  rather  not,  tell  me  so  frankly,  and  I 
will  not  bother  you  any  further.     We  will  just  go  on 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  107 

with  our  work,  and  think  no  more  about  it.  But  I 
can't  help  hoping  that  you  will  consent.  It  would  be 
such  a  splendid  arrangement  all  round." 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter  went  straight  to  her  room  to 
dress  for  dinner;  but  there  was  plenty  of  time,  and  she 
did  not  begin  her  toilet  operations  at  once.  She  looked 
round  the  large  comfortable  room,  which  contained  fur- 
niture that  had  been  in  the  house  for  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred years,  and  whose  walls  were  hung  with  drawings 
and  prints  of  some  value.  Everything  in  it  spoke  of 
an  old-established  opulence,  which  was  far  from  being 
connected  in  any  way  with  the  work  to  which  she  had 
devoted  herself,  and  to  which  the  owner  of  this  room 
and  the  other  handsome  rooms  of  this  fine  house  also 
devoted  himself.  Then  she  went  to  the  window,  and 
looked  out  over  the  beautiful  gardens  and  the  park  be- 
yond them. 

There  was  a  new  expression  on  her  face.  The  scien- 
tific investigations  of  which  her  mind  had  been  so  full 
when  she  had  first  been  introduced  to  this  room  were 
probably  as  far  from  it  at  that  moment  as  they  very 
well  could  be.  Her  face  was  thoughtful,  and  if  Lady 
Kimmeridge  had  seen  it  at  that  moment  she  would 
have  liked  it  less  than  ever,  although  its  expression 
might  have  meant  no  more  than  that  she  had  awoke  to 
a  realization  of  what  most  young  women  of  a  marriage- 
able age  and  considerable  personal  attractions  might 
have  had  in  their  minds  from  the  first. 

She  dressed  herself  with  more  than  usual  care,  and 
went  down  to  dinner. 


108         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

IV 

Whin  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  went  into  the  laboratory 
the  next  morning,  Lord  Kimrneridge  greeted  her  with 
an  eager  smile. 

"  Always  punctual!  "  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands  with 
pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  the  fascinating  work  before 
them.     u  Now   let's   begin." 

She  stood  before  him  on  the  bare  floor,  calm  and 
stately.  "  Lord  Kimrneridge,"  she  said,  "  I  accept  the 
offer  you  made  to  me  yesterday  evening." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"*  he  said.  "Oh!  That! 
Yes!  Well,  I  needn't  say  how  pleased  I  am.  I  hoped 
you  would.  I  quite  hoped  you  would.  It  is  very  sat- 
isfactory. We'll  talk  it  over  later  —  when  we're  not 
so  busy,  eh?  "  Another  smile  at  her.  "  Now  we'll  be- 
gin, shall  we?  " 

They  began ;  and  went  on  for  three  hours  without 
intermission.  It  is  quite  certain  that  during  that  time 
Kimrneridge  never  gave  it  a  thought  that  he  had  pro- 
posed marriage  to  his  assistant,  and  that  she  had  ac- 
cepted him.  It  is  also  certain  that  Dr.  Margaret  Plat- 
ter gave  it  a  great  many  thoughts.  She  had  unusual 
powers  of  concentration,  and  used  them  now  doggedly. 
But  the  fine  edge  of  her  scientific  enthusiasm  was 
blunted,  and  when  the  gong  warned  for  the  hour  of 
luncheon,  and  they  began  to  prepare  to  leave  their 
work  for  a  time,  Kimrneridge  was  conscious  of  a  sense 
of  disappointment  at  the  way  things  had  gone. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  hint  of  reproach.  "  You  are 
not  quite  so  keen  as  you  were?  "  he  suggested.  "  But  I 
think  we  are  on  the  right  lines." 

A  flicker  of  the  eyelids,  too  quick  for  him  to  discern, 
indicated  a  temper  under  that  calm  exterior.     "  I  am  as 


« IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  109 

keen  as  ever  I  was,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  am  sure  we  are 
on  the  right  lines." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  dare  say  it  will  go  better  this  afternoon," 
he  said  indulgently.  "  But  if  you  are  tired,  perhaps 
you  would  like  an  afternoon  off." 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  she  said,  and  waited  for  him  to 
say  more. 

Then  he  remembered ;  and  it  could  not  have  been 
pleasant  for  her  to  see  a  shadow  come  over  his  face. 
But  she  understood  it  ver}7  well.  Something  would  have 
to  be  done  which  would  interrupt  what  he  wished  to  give 
all  his  attention  to. 

"  We  will  tell  my  mother  what  we  have  settled,"  he 
said,  smiling  at  her  once  more.  "  She  will  be  very 
pleased." 

He  told  her  when  the  servants  had  brought  in  the  cof- 
fee, and  left  them  to  themselves ;  and  she  was  not  at  all 
pleased.  She  was  startled  out  of  all  her  hard-won  equa- 
nimity at  the  statement  thrown  at  her  across  the  table. 

"  Mother,  this  clever  young  person  has  consented  to 
marry  me.  We  are  going  to  work  together  for  the  rest 
of  our  lives." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  women  clashed  like  swords  for  an 
instant,  and  then  disengaged.  But  Lady  Kimmeridge 
said  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  spoken :  "  You've  en- 
trapped him ;  "  and  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  told  her  as 
plainly  that  she  was  going  to  fight  for  what  she  had 
won. 

Lady  Kimmeridge  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  a 
little :  "  That  is  a  serious  step  to  take,  Henry,  on  such 
a  very  short  acquaintance ;  "  and  when  she  had  spoken 
had  recovered  her  self-control. 

"  We  feel  as  if  we  had  known  each  other  for  a  hun- 
dred years,  don't  we?  "  said  Kimmeridge  to  his  fiancee. 


110         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

She  replied  gravely :  "  We  are  both  of  an  age  to 
know  what  we  want.  Our  interests  in  life  are  the 
same ;  we  ought  to  gain  as  much  happiness  as  most 
people." 

No  doubt  she  knew  what  she  wanted,  was  Lady  Kim- 
meridge's  unspoken  comment  on  this  straightforward 
speech  ;  and  there  began  to  grow  up  in  her  mind  a  deter- 
mination that  she  should  not  have  what  she  wanted,  if 
it  could  possibly  be  prevented. 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter  did  not  shirk  the  discussion  that 
was  bound  to  come.  She  invited  it,  by  following  Lady 
Kimmeridge  into  her  morning-room. 

Lady  Kimmeridge  turned  towards  her  when  the  door 
had  been  closed.  There  was  trouble  in  her  eyes,  as  well 
as  some  indignation. 

"  Do  you  love  my  son  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  As  much  as  he  loves  me,"  was  the  uncompromising 
reply,  delivered  in  a  firm  voice,  and  with  a  calm  critical 
gaze. 

Lady  Kimmeridge  turned  away  and  took  a  chair, 
leaving  her  opponent  to  do  the  same  if  she  pleased. 

She  did  please,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  right  for  a  woman  to  marry  a 
man  she  does  not  love?  " 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter  had  no  surface  vulgarities,  or 
she  might  have  treated  the  second  question  as  a  variant 
of  the  first,  and  met  it  by  another  still.  "  I  think," 
she  said,  "  that  it  is  right  for  every  woman  to  take  what 
chances  are  offered  her,  whether  in  marriage  or  any- 
thing else.  I  have  thought  very  little  of  marriage.  I 
have  been  too  busy,  and  my  work  has  been  enough  for 
me.  But  I  have  always  expected  to  marry  some  day, 
and  I  could  hardly  have  hoped  for  a  better  lot  than  to 
be  offered  marriage  by  a  man  whose  tastes  and  am- 
bitions are  exactly  the  same  as  mine." 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  111 

"  Even  when  that  man  is  acting  on  an  impulse  that 
makes  an  offer  of  marriage  almost  an  affront?  " 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter's  eyes  dropped  for  an  instant, 
but  she  answered  composedly :  "  I  cannot  see  it  in  that 
light,  Lady  Kimmeridge." 

"  I  think  you  can,  Miss  Platter.  I  think  any  woman 
could." 

Lady  Kimmeridge  had  won  the  first  round.  Her  op- 
ponent now  took  up  an  attitude  which  enabled  her  to 
win  the  second. 

"  What  is  it  you  object  to  in  me  as  a  wife  for  your 
son?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  what  you  show  of  yourself  to  me,  by  accept- 
ing at  once  an  offer  so  lightly  made." 

It  was  not  the  answer  she  had  expected,  and  she  re- 
plied to  it  hurriedly :  "  I  did  not  accept  at  once. 
Lord  Kimmeridge  asked  me  yesterday,  and  I  did  not 
give  him  his  answer  until  this  morning." 

"  You  thought  it  over.  Will  you  tell  me  what  de- 
cided you  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  told  you,  Lady  Kimmeridge." 

"  Have  you  told  me  everything?  " 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter  had  the  mental  honesty  and 
directness  of  the  scientist.  "You  would  not  believe 
me,"  she  said,  "  if  I  told  you  that  I  was  not  influenced 
by  Lord  Kimmeridge's  position,  which,  I  suppose,  is 
what  you  want  me  to  admit.  But  whether  you  believe 
me  or  not,  his  character  and  his  pursuits  weighed  with 
me  more  heavily  than  that." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  is  so  ?  Have  you  had  no  offers 
of  marriage  from  men  whose  character  you  knew  better 
than  you  do  his,  and  whose  pursuits  are  the  same?  " 

If  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  had  been  able  to  answer  no, 
she  would  have  won  that  round.  But  her  eyes  unwill- 
ingly fell  once  more,  and  she  made  no  reply. 


112         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  I  think  you  arc  deceiving  yourself,"  said  Lady 
Kimmeridge,  quietly. 

Then  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  made  a  mistake.  She 
raised  her  clear  eyes,  and  asked:  "  Are  you  not  show- 
ing, when  you  press  that  point,  that  your  real  objection 
to  me  is  that  my  position  in  the  world  is  not  equal  to 
yours?  " 

"  And  if  that  were  my  objection,  what  then?  " 

"  You  think  that  that  should  count  against  com- 
munity of  interests,  and  against  the  fact, —  you  will 
excuse  very  plain  speech,—  that  I  am  not  conspicu- 
ously lacking  in  appearance,  or  youth,  or  manners,  I 
hope,  or  intelligence?  " 

"  It  would  count  far  less  with  me  than  you  might 
think;  it  would  not  count  with  my  son  at  all.  How 
much  does  it  count  with  you?  " 

Again  the  eyes  dropped. 

"  For  what  reason,"  pursued  Lady  Kimmeridge, 
"  did  you  accept  a  sudden  offer  —  I  know  my  son,  and 
I  know  it  must  have  been  sudden,  and  must  have  taken 
you  by  surprise  —  after  knowing  him  for  less  than  three 
days?  If  you  ask  yourself  that  question  you  will  find 
the  answer  to  the  one  you  asked  me;  why  do  I  object  to 
you  as  a  wife  for  my  son?  " 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter  rose  deliberately  from  her 
chair.  "  I  am  sorry  that  you  do  not  like  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  shall  hope  to  be  able  to  remove  your  prejudice  in 
time." 

It  was  a  confession,  and  at  the  same  time  a  denial, 
of  defeat.  The  years  of  self-control  that  Lady  Kim- 
meridge had  practised  stood  her  now  in  good  stead. 
"  Am  I  to  take  it  that  you  cling  to  your  capture?  " 
she  asked,  in  a  voice  as  quiet  as  before. 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  113 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter  also  had  self-control.  With 
only  a  catch  of  Lhe  breath,  and  cheeks  brighter  than 
their  wont,  she  looked  down  at  Lady  Kimmeridge,  and 
said  calmly :  "  I  told  you,  Lady  Kimmeridge,  that  I 
had  taken  the  night  to  consider  the  question.  I  have 
given  my  word,  and  I  shall  keep  that." 


"  Mother,  where  is  Angela  ?  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  be  here  most  of  the  summer." 

Lady  Kimmeridge  did  not  immediately  reply  to  this 
question,  for  fear  that  the  keen  delight  with  which  she 
heard  it  should  affect  her  voice.  She  drank  some  cof- 
fee before  she  said:  "She  is  in  London.  They  were 
going  abroad  a  fortnight  ago,  but  Colonel  Luttrell  has 
altered  his  plans." 

"Couldn't  you  get  her  down  here?"  He  turned 
towards  Dr.  Margaret  Platter,  with  his  ever-courteous 
smile.  "  Angela  Luttrell  is  my  cousin  —  a  very  dis- 
tant cousin  — "  he  said.  "  She  has  lived  with  us  a  great 
deal  ever  since  she  was  a  child.  I  should  like  you  to 
know  her.  She  would  be  a  companion  for  you  during 
your  off  hours.  I  am  afraid  vou  must  sometimes  be 
dull." 

"  I  am  never  dull,"  she  said.  "  But,  of  course,  I 
should  like  to  know  Miss  Luttrell." 

After  breakfast,  Kimmeridge  sought  out  his  mother, 
to  press  her  to  send  for  Angela.  It  was  two  days 
after  his  suit  had  been  accepted.  Lady  Kimmeridge 
had  said  nothing  to  him  upon  the  subject,  and  he  had 
said  nothing  further  to  her.  He  had  not  noticed  any 
difference   in  her   attitude  towards    their   guest,   when 


11 4         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

the  three  of  them  were  together,  but  lie  had  noticed  that 
during  the  hours  spent  away  from  work  if  he  did  not 
keep  his  fiancee  company  nobody  did. 

M  You  seem  to  be  so  busy  in  these  days,  mother.  If 
Angela  were  here,  she  and  —  and  Margaret  " —  he  never 
used  her  name  without  hesitation  — "  could  amuse  one 
another." 

"  You  are  engaged  to  marry  Margaret,  Henry,"  she 
said,  using  the  name  with  no  sign  of  hesitation.  "  Y^ou 
should  not  want  a  third  person  to  amuse  her." 

His  face  clouded.  "  We  work  together  most  of  the 
day,""  he  said.  "  It  does  us  good  to  be  apart  for  a 
time.  When  we  are  together  we  naturally  talk  about 
our  work  when  we  ought  to  be  resting  our  brains." 

"  When  you  are  married,  Henry,  you  will  always  be 
together." 

"  Yes,  but  —     Well,  you  will  be  here,  mother." 

"  No,  Henry.  When  you  are  married  I  shall  leave 
Steynes." 

"  What !  "     This  was  quite  a  new  idea  to  him. 

"  Margaret  will  take  my  place,"  she  said.  "  I  shall 
live  in  London,  I  hope  with  Angela.  When  are  you 
thinking  of  getting  married,  Henry?" 

"  But,  mother,  surely  you  are  not  going  to  desert 
me!     What  would   Steynes   do   without   you?" 

M  Margaret  must  take  my  place.  She  is  your  choice, 
Henr}\     You  cannot  have  her  and  me,  too." 

It  came  to  his  mind,  as  a  dim  idea,  possibly  to  be  ex- 
amined later,  that  his  mother  did  not  like  Margaret. 
He  frowned  again.  "  Margaret  and  I  will  be  very  busy 
working  together,"  lie  said. 

"  I  hope  the  work  is  going  satisfactorily,  Henry." 

"  Well  no,  it  isn't,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  we  could  get 
this  marriage  over  and  settle  down  to  it.     It  gets  in  the 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  115 

way.  It  comes  to  my  thoughts  frequently,  when  I 
ought  to  be  giving  my  whole  attention  to  the  work; 
and  I  expect  it  is  the  same  with  her,  although  she  says 
it  isn't  so.  And  we  began  so  extraordinarily  well  to- 
gether. Mother,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  leaving 
Steynes.  I  should  like  you  and  Angela  to  live  here 
always.  You  seem  to  belong  to  the  place.  How  would 
it  be  if  I  —  if  we  —  were  to  live  in  London,  and  you 
were  to  stay  here?  " 

"Have  you  suggested  that  to  Margaret?" 

"  No ;  but  I  could.  I  think  she  would  be  pleased. 
We  could  come  here  sometimes.  You  wouldn't  mind 
that?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Henry." 

"  I  like  Steynes,  you  know, —  especially  in  the  sum- 
mer. I  am  sometimes  glad  to  think  it  is  mine.  But 
it  would  be  good  for  our  work  to  live  in  London,  espe- 
cially now,  at  this  stage." 

"  I  would  do  whichever  you  wished.  You  had  better 
talk  it  over  with  Margaret." 

He  did  so.  She  said,  with  that  droop  of  the  eyes 
which  he  never  noticed,  but  Lady  Kimmeridge  always 
did,  that  she  would  be  willing  to  live  in  London. 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  get  married  soon,"  he  said. 
"  Until  we  do,  I'm  afraid  we  shall  never  really  be  able 
to  settle  down  to  our  work." 

Again  the  droop  of  the  eyes.  She  had  tried  with  all 
her  powers  to  keep  herself  up  to  her  work.  "  I  have 
nothing  to  wait  for,"  she  said. 

"  Then  you  would  not  mind  being  married  at  once  — 
very  quietly  —  let  us  say  in  a  week  from  now.  We 
could  take  up  our  work  again  immediately  afterwards, 
and  then  I  am  quite  sure,  with  nothing  to  disturb  our 
thoughts,  we  shall  get  on  splendidly  with  it." 


116         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

He  used  his  kind  smile  on  her,  the  smile  which,  of 
all  that  she  had  to  meet  in  these  difficult  days,  brought 
her  compunction.  She  could  not  return  it.  "  I  will 
think  it  over,"  she  said. 

He  put  the  matter  to  his  mother.  He  had  made  the 
plunge;  let  them  get  it  over  as  soon  as  possible,  and  as 
quietly  as  possible.  Let  them  walk  out  of  the  house 
one  morning,  and  come  back  to  go  on  with  their  work 
—  they  two.  with  her  and  Angela.  He  should  like 
Angela  to  be  there;  she  seemed  to  belong  to  Steynes. 

'*  My  dear  Henry,"  she  said,  "  have  you  realized  that 
Margaret  has  parents  of  her  own  —  is  one  of  a  large 
family?" 

"  No,  she  has  never  mentioned  it  to  me,"  he  said. 

She  could  not  forbear  a  laugh.  "  Really,  my  dear 
boy,"  she  said,  "  your  entire  detachment  from  all  the 
actualities  of  life  makes  me  wonder  whether  I  have  done 
right  in  sparing  you  so  much.  It  cannot  be  the  part 
of  a  wise  man  to  exercise  one  side  of  his  brain  so  much 
to  the  exclusion  of  every  other." 

It  was  the  nearest  she  had  ever  gone  to  criticism  of 
him  since  his  boyhood.  "  Why,  mother !  What  do  you 
mean  ?  "  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"  In  this  instance,"  she  said,  more  gravely,  "  I  mean 
that  you  appear  to  care  so  little  for  the  woman  you 
want  to  make  your  wife  within  a  few  da3's  that  you  have 
not  put  a  single  question  to  her  about  herself." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  a  little  disconcerted,  "  after  all,  it 
will  be  she  and  I ;  and  our  tastes  are  more  closely  al- 
lied than  can  possibly  be  the  case  with  the  great  ma- 
jority of  married  people.  Her  family  will  not  matter 
to  us." 

"  I  should  think  it  is  likely  to  matter  to  her.  You, 
certainly,  cannot  judge  of  that,  as  you  know*  nothing 


"IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE"  117 

whatever  about  her  outside  your  laboratory.  At  any 
rate,  her  parents  matter  to  this  extent,  that  you  must 
be  married  from  their  house,  and  not  from  your  own. 
You  ought,  of  course,  to  go  and  see  them." 

This  disconcerted  him  more  than  ever.  "Do  you 
really  think  so,  mother?"  he  asked.  "She  has  never 
suggested  it." 

"  Don't  you  think  she  would  expect  the  suggestion 
to  come  from  you?  " 

"Would  she?  I  know  so  little  of  these  things.  I 
shouldn't  like  to  fail  in  courtesy.  I  will  do  it,  if  it  has 
to  be  done.  But  dear  me,  what  a  deal  of  fuss  there 
seems  to  be  about  such  a  simple  thing  as  a  marriage 
between  two  sensible  people.  It  is  annoying  too,  at  the 
present  moment.  I  do  not  want  to  have  to  break  off 
to  go  to  London  now." 

She  paused  before  asking :  "  Would  you  like  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Platter  asked  to  come  here  instead?  " 

He  jumped  eagerly  at  the  idea. 

VI 

It  was  assuredly  no  matter  for  shame  that  a  young 
woman  who,  in  personal  appearance,  manners  and  de- 
portment, needed  to  fear  no  comparison  with  the  well- 
born, and  in  intelligence  and  achievement  stood  vastly 
higher  than  the  average,  should  have  raised  herself  to 
such  an  eminence  entirely  by  her  own  exertions.  And 
yet  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  would  gladly  have  exchanged 
a  good  few  of  her  attainments  for  an  origin  some  de- 
grees higher  in  the  social  scale,  when  the  visit  of  her 
parents  to  Steynes  Park  was  mooted  to  her. 

Her  father  was  an  assistant  in  the  shop  of  a  second- 
hand furniture  dealer,  a  wiry  man  of  necessarily  grubby 


118         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

exterior,  but  with  an  eager  delight  in  such  knowledge 
as  a  busy  life  and  a  meagre  equipment  of  education 
had  permitted  him  to  acquire.  Her  mother  was  what 
is  known  as  a  comfortable  woman.  She  had  no  thirst 
for  knowledge,  but  liked  to  see  everybody  happy  around 
her.  Her  other  outstanding  quality  was  a  capacity 
for  economical  management  that  had  resulted  in  every 
one  of  her  numerous  family  bettering  the  position  in 
which  she  had  brought  them  up.  The  eldest  son  was 
an  electrical  engineer,  the  second  a  solicitor's  clerk, 
the  third  a  mining  engineer,  now  in  America,  the  fourth 
a  schoolmaster.  Of  her  daughters,  one  was  married  to 
a  manager  of  motor-works,  another  to  a  Nonconform- 
ist minister,  the  third  was  a  hospital  nurse,  engaged 
to  a  doctor,  and  the  fourth  was  a  doctor  herself,  the 
most  brilliant  of  the  whole  keenly  competent  family. 
They  w7ere  all  very  proud  of  Margaret,  as  well  they 
might  be;  and  she  had  always  told  herself  that,  how- 
ever high  she  might  rise  in  the  world  —  and  she  meant 
to  rise  very  high  indeed  —  she  would  never  be  anything 
but  proud  of  them  in  her  turn. 

But  the  sudden  dizzying  lift  to  a  state  not,  perhaps, 
in  comparison  higher  than  any  which  she  had  thought 
of  as  within  her  reach,  but  certainly  to  a  peak  outside 
the  range  on  which  she  had  set  her  steadfast  gaze,  over- 
threw the  adjustments  she  had  constantly  made  between 
personal  ambition  and  family  loyalty.  She  could  not 
keep  back  a  blush,  as  well  as  the  tell-tale  droop  of  the 
eyes,  when  Lady  Kimmcridge  told  her  over  the  luncheon- 
table  that  she  wished  to  invite  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Platter  to 
Steynes  Park. 

It  may  surety  be  accounted  to  her  for  righteousness 
that  she  instantly  raised  her  eyes,  and  said:  "My 
father   and   mother    are   not   used   to   visiting  at   such 


"IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE"  119 

houses  as  this.     I  do  not  think  they  would  wish  to  come, 
or  would  be  comfortable  here." 

Lady  Kimmeridge  was  as  capable  of  admiring  cour- 
age as  any  woman,  and  but  for  her  contempt  for  the  un- 
scrupulous designs  of  this  young  person,  and  her  care- 
fully concealed  but  none  the  less  consuming  anger 
against  her,  would  have  regretted  putting  her  to  such 
a  test  in  the  presence  of  the  servants.  Her  regret, 
however,  only  embraced  the  impossibility  of  following 
up  the  revelation  made  by  her  enemy  at  that  moment. 
When  the  time  came,  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  would  be 
invited  to  expand  her  disclaimer  on  behalf  of  her  parents 
into  one  on  behalf  of  herself,  and  she  would  probably  not 
like  doing  so. 

Lady  Kimmeridge  said  nothing,  but  that  socially  un- 
sophisticated scientist,  her  son,  said  at  once,  with  his 
agreeable  smile :  "  Oh,  but  we  shall  do  our  best  to 
make  them  feel  at  home.  You  must  try  to  persuade 
them." 

Her  large  placidity  enabled  her  to  ignore  this  speech 
and  go  on  with  her  luncheon  until  the  servants  had  left 
the  room,  when  she  said :  "  My  father  is  in  a  very 
humble  position.  He  and  my  mother  have  acted 
splendidly  towards  my  brothers  and  sisters  and  myself, 
and  have  helped  us  all  to  make  use  of  every  possible 
educational  advantage.  But  they  would  not  be  at  home 
here,  and  it  would  be  putting  them  in  an  invidious  posi- 
tion to  ask  them.  I  am  much  obliged  for  your  kindness 
all  the  same." 

The  last  sentence  was  addressed  to  Lady  Kimmeridge, 
and  accompanied  by  a  clear  look  which  said :  "  I  know 
what  you  are  up  to,  and  I  will  meet  your  guile  by  con- 
cealing nothing." 

Lady  Kimmeridge  understood  the  look  perfectly,  and 


120         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

accepted  the  challenge.  "Then  do  you  propose  to 
drop  your  parents  out  of  your  life  entirely?"  she 
asked. 

"  No,"  said  Dr.  Margaret  Platter.  "  But  I  do  not 
propose  to  bring  them  into  Henry's  life." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  called  him  by  his 
Christian  name,  and  he  looked  rather  surprised,  as  if 
it  were  one  that  was  strange  to  him. 

"  I  shall  always  be  pleased  to  see  them,"  he  said, 
rather  lamely.  He  did  not  in  the  least  realize  what 
■was  indicated  by  the  phrase  "  a  very  humble  position," 
and  thought  that  Margaret  perhaps,  did  not  "  get  on  " 
with  her  parents.  Nor  had  Lady  Kimmeridge  gauged 
the  social  gulf  which  this  remarkable  young  woman  had 
already  bridged  for  herself.  It  did  not  even  now  occur 
to  her  that  she  had  sprung  from  the  ranks  of  those 
who  work  with  their  hands  and  not  with  their  brains. 

For  the  moment  she  was  at  a  disadvantage  with  her 
adversary,  who  had  faced  the  complication  from  the 
first,  and  laid  down  the  lines  upon  which  she  would  meet 
it.  It  was  what  had  chiefly  occupied  her  during  the 
hours  she  had  asked  for  reflection,  and  the  decision  had 
not  been  so  much  of  a  foregone  conclusion  as  Lady 
Kimmeridge  had  supposed. 

She  turned  her  clear  eyes  upon  Kimmeridge.  "  I 
have  already  made  up  my  mind  about  my  family,"  she 
said.  "  I  shall  hope  to  go  and  see  them  sometimes;  and 
those  of  them  who  have  lifted  themselves  out  of  the  posi- 
tion in  which  they  were  born,  as  I  have  myself,  can 
come  to  see  me  sometimes,  if  you  do  not  object. 
Neither  I  nor  they  will  wish  for  more  than  that." 

This  was  all  that  was  said  at  the  moment.  Kim- 
meridge,  of  course,  accepted  her  decision,  but  without 
attempting  to  understand  it.      It  added  to  the  discom- 


«IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE"  121 

fort  which  seemed  to  be  gathering  all  about  him  over  an 
arrangement  which  he  had  thought  would  finally  relieve 
him  of  all  discomfort  concerning  mundane  affairs. 
His  mother  saw  the  cloud  gathering,  and  held  her  peace. 


VII 

With  whatever  feelings  Angela  Luttrell  had  received 
the  news  of  her  cousin's  engagement,  she  allowed  none 
of  them  to  appear  when  she  arrived  at  Steynes  Park  a 
few  days  later.  "  Dear  Henry,  I  hope  you  will  be  very 
happy,"  was  all  she  said  in  reply  to  his  Welcoming 
speech,  which  had  included  the  announcement :  '*  You 
have  come  just  in  time  to  see  me  married,  Angela.  I 
expect  mother  has  told  you  about  it." 

If  she  had  come  just  in  time  to  see  him  married,  it 
was  none  the  less  a  fact  that  nothing  further  had  been 
said  as  to  when  and  where  and  how  the  marriage  cere- 
mony was  to  take  place.  Perhaps,  as  he  had  always 
been  relieved  of  the  burden  of  affairs  having  to  do  with 
the  mechanism  of  life,  he  may  have  supposed  that  this 
affair  was  being  arranged  for  him,  and  he  would  be 
given  his  part  all  in  good  time.  Margaret  Platter  had 
Waited  some  days  for  a  further  word  from  him,  and  was 
only  now  beginning  to  realize  that  the  word  would 
probably  not  come  until  she  did  or  said  something  to 
invite  it.  Truly  her  path  was  one  of  thorns,  and  it 
Was  not  made  easier  by  the  arrival  of  Angela  Luttrell, 
concerning  whom  there  were  some  mental  adjustments 
to  be  made. 

Lady  Kimmeridge  had  never  given  her  so  much  as  a 
hint  that  she  desired  a  marriage  between  Angela  and  her 
son,  but  she  knew  it  as  surely  as  if  it  had  been  cried 
aloud  to  her.     And  she  knew  as  surely  that  Angela  had 


128         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

been  sent  for  as  a  reinforcement  against  her.  Her  dif- 
ficult task  was  to  discover  how  the  reinforcement  was 
intended  to  be  used,  and  how  far  the  girl  herself  would 
actively  abet  the  designs  of  the  enemy. 

After  a  couple  of  days  she  had  to  confess  herself 
baffled.  Angela  behaved  exactly  as  a  daughter  of  the 
house,  and,  while  her  intercourse  with  her  cousin  was 
entirely  frank,  and  even  affectionate,  when  all  four  of 
them  were  together,  so  far  from  seeking  his  society  she 
seemed  to  avoid  it.  Nor,  beyond  withholding  all  in- 
timacy, did  she  show  any  feeling  against  Dr.  Margaret 
Platter  herself.  At  mealtimes,  and  on  other  occasions 
of  their  meeting,  she  seemed  to  exert  herself  to  ease  the 
wheels  of  intercourse ;  and  she  succeeded.  If  she  had 
been  brought  to  the  house  to  diminish  the  constraint 
that  Margaret  Platter  could  not  help  feeling  in  the 
presence  of  her  hostess,  she  could  not  have  served  her 
better.  But  she  did  not  suppose  that  she  had  been 
brought  to  the  house  with  that  purpose ;  nor  did  it 
seem  likely  that  Lady  Kimmeridge  could  have  hoped 
anything  from  merely  exhibiting  her  charm  before  her 
son,  since  he  had  had  it  before  him  for  the  greater  part 
of  his  life. 

Besides,  there  was  no  attempt  to  mark  comparisons. 
Margaret  Platter  had  at  least  expected  that.  She  was 
clear-sighted  about  herself.  She  relied  upon  her  in- 
tellect, her  handsome  presence,  and  her  quiet  trained 
manners;  but  she  was  well  aware  that  there  was  some- 
thing beyond,  which  this  girl  had  and  she  had  not,  that 
would  have  brought  her  embarrassment,  or  at  least  re- 
duced her  to  silence,  if  it  had  been  insisted  upon.  It 
would  have  been  quite  possible  for  Lady  Kimmeridge, 
without  failing  in  any  courtesy  towards  herself  —  or  in 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  123 

none  that  she  would  have  had  a  right  to  demand  under 
the  circumstances  —  to  put  her  outside  the  circle,  and 
to  show  her  son  that  in  the  intimacy  of  his  own  rela- 
tions her  place  must  necessarily  be  outside  it.  But  she 
had  apparently  rejected  that  weapon.  Margaret  Plat- 
ter felt  an  increased  respect  for  her  on  account  of  it ; 
she  fought  cleanly. 

But  she  fought.  Why  had  she  brought  Angela  to 
Steynes  ? 

Her  bewilderment  would  have  been  greater  still  if  she 
had  known  that  her  name  was  never  mentioned  between 
Lady  Kimmeridge  and  Angela.  Each  of  them  was  won- 
dering what  the  other  was  thinking,  but  neither  would 
ask.  Angela  herself  was  in  uncertainty  as  to  why  she 
had  been  so  insistently  begged  to  come  to  Steynes,  with- 
out delay. 

She  may  have  had  a  glimmering  of  the  reason  when 
she  did,  at  last,  have  a  conversation  alone  with  her 
cousin.  It  was  true  that  she  had  taken  some  pains  to 
avoid  this  ordeal.  She  knew  him  so  well,  and  made 
such  large  allowances  for  his  eccentricities,  that  she  was 
able  to  treat  him  with  no  diminution  of  cousinly  goodwill 
when  she  met  him  supported  by  third  and  fourth  parties. 
She  also  saw  as  clearly  as  it  was  possible  for  her 
to  see  how  he  stood  with  regard  to  Dr.  Margaret  Plat- 
ter. But  she  would  hardly  have  been  human,  or  femi- 
nine, if  she  had  not  felt  some  resentment  against  him 
for  what  he  had  done;  and  she  would  have  preferred 
to  spare  herself  the  annoyance  of  hearing  him  talk 
about  it.  She  could  not  avoid  it,  however,  when  he 
came  towards  her  as  she  was  sitting  on  the  same  garden 
seat  on  which  he  had  made  his  proposal  to  her  earlier  in 
the  summer;  she  could  only  string  herself  up  to  a  de- 


1«4         THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

termination  not  to  lose  the  command  over  herself  which 
enabled  her  to  maintain  her  hitherto  admirable  attitude 
towards  him. 

He  was  not  apparently  troubled  by  any  remembrance 
of  what  had  already  passed  between  them  on  the  seat 
by  the  lily  pond,  but  sat  down  in  the  same  plaee  and  in 
the  same  way,  with  his  arm  stretched  along  the  back  of 
the  bench,  and  said :  "  I'm  glad  I've  found  you  here, 
Angela.  I've  been  so  busy  that  I've  seen  very  little  of 
you  since  you  came  back.  I  want  you  to  help  me,  if 
you   will.      I'm    rather  bothered   about   something." 

"  I'm  always  ready  to  help  you  if  I  can,  Henry,"  she 
said  quietly. 

"  Well,  it's  about  this  marriage  of  mine.  I  should 
naturally  have  spoken  to  mother ;  but  for  some  reason 
or  other  she  does  not  seem  as  pleased  as  I  expected  she 
would  be  about  it,  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  she 
would  help  me  if  I  did  ask  her." 

Angela  had  nothing  to  say  to  this  remarkable  speech, 
and  he  went  on  after  a  short  pause :  "  I  want  to  get 
it  over  as  soon  as  possible.  Until  —  er  —  Margaret 
and  I  are  married,  we  cannot  settle  down  properly  to  our 
work.  I  said  about  a  week  ago  that  I  should  like  to  be 
married  soon,  and  with  as  little  fuss  as  possible;  but 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out  nothing  has  been  done  about 
it,  and  —  and  —  well,  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  do." 

It  was  fortunate  for  him  that  Angela  had  a  sense  of 
humour,  or  the  interview  might  have  been  cut  short  at 
this  point.  She  could  not  forbear  laughing  at  him, 
but  she  did  so  in  such  a  way  that  he  smiled  too,  rather 
ruefully,  and  said : 

"  What  I  should  like  would  be  a  quiet  wedding  here 
—  just  we  four,  and  —  er  —  I  suppose  Clarke.''  Mr. 
Clarke  was  the  Rector  of  Steynes.     "  Mother  did  say 


"IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE"  125 

that  we  ought  to  be  married  from  Margaret's  home; 
but  apparently  she  does  not  desire  that.  She  has  some 
reason  for  not  wishing  me  to  meet  the  members  of  her 
family." 

Angela's  interest  in  this  statement  removed  for  the 
moment  the  pressure  of  other  feelings.  "  Why  doesn't 
she  wish  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  remember  what  she  said. 
She  gave  a  reason.  I  don't  think  they  have  quarrelled 
exactly.  It  had  something  to  do  with  their  position  in 
life.     But  of  course  that  wouldn't  affect  me  in  any  way." 

She  considered  this  thoughtfully.  "  Well,  how  can 
I  help  you,  Henry  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  you  see,  dear,  I  have  been  rather  spoilt  in 
having  all  anno}rances  of  this  sort  taken  off  my  shoul- 
ders. Mother  has  been  so  good  about  that,  and  leaving 
me  to  give  myself  to  my  work  undisturbed.  But  I  am 
pretty  certain  that  she  is  not  taking  any  steps  to  bring 
about  this  —  this  business,  and  I  should  not  like  to  dis- 
tress her  in  any  way  by  asking  her  questions,  or  press- 
ing her  to  move.  So  I  thought  —  Well,  you  know, 
Angela,  you  have  been  just  as  kind  and  good  about 
saving  me  worries,  and  I  wondered  whether  —  whether 
you  couldn't  do  something." 

She  laughed  again,  as  gently  and  agreeably  as  be- 
fore. "What  does  Miss  Platter  say  about  it?"  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  said  anything  to  her.  I  have  felt  that 
any  suggestion  ought  to  come  first  from  our  side." 

"  And  she  has  said  nothing,  either?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  She  wouldn't,  I  suppose.  It  is  all  ex- 
traordinarily tiresome  and  worrying,  Angela.  We  be- 
gan so  splendidly  —  with  our  investigations,  I  mean. 
Everything  seemed  to  go  exactly  right ;  and  it  occurred 


126         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

to  me  that  if  we  were  always  together,  we  might  do  some 
remarkable  work,  and  both  of  us  gain  great  satisfaction 
from  it.  So  we  should,  I  think,  if  we  were  once  mar- 
ried. But  it  hangs  on  and  hangs  on,  and  the  work  is 
getting  spoilt.  I  feel  that ;  and  I  believe  she  feels  it 
too,  though  she  says  she  doesn't.  Poor  girl,  I  don't 
blame  her.  She  has  an  extraordinary  capacity,  but 
I'm  afraid  it  is  not  of  much  use  to  us  just  now.  In  fact 
she  seems  to  have  lost  it  for  the  present  —  though  I 
wouldn't  hint  at  that  to  her." 

Angela  was  beginning  to  see  a  little  daylight  now. 
Henry  was  not  the  only  person  who  wanted  help  from 
her,  though  no  word  had  been  said  about  help  except  by 
him. 

"  Well,  I'm  afraid  if  Cousin  Helen  doesn't  see  her 
way  to  take  these  troubles  off  your  shoulders,  Henry, 
I  can't.  But  surely,  neither  of  us  is  any  longer  the 
person  to  expect  that  of." 

"  You  mean  — " 

"  I  mean  that  if  you  have  chosen  a  woman  for  your 
wife,  you  ought  to  expect  help  of  that  sort  from  her." 

The  statement  seemed  to  affect  him  disagreeably. 
He  sat  for  some  time  silent,  and  then  said  ingenuously : 
"  I  hadn't  thought  of  requiring  of  Margaret  that  she 
should  do  the  things  that  mother,  and  you,  do  so  well, 
and  I  can't  do." 

She  let  this  pass. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  take  this  upon  my  shoulders,"  he 
said,  after  another  pause.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  we  shall 
have  to  drop  our  work  altogether  until  these  tiresome 
affairs  are  settled.     We  are  doing  no  good  with  it." 

They  sat  silent  again  for  a  time.  The  bees  hummed 
in  the  hot,  still  air,  the  splash  of  a  little  fountain  came 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  127 

gratefully  to  the  ear.  The  sweet  peaceful  place  made 
itse-lf  felt,  even  to  him. 

"  We  used  to  be  so  happy  here  at  Steynes,"  he  said 
regretfully.  "  I  shall  be  sorry,  after  all,  to  leave  it, 
though  there  will  be  compensations,  in  London.  I  shall 
like  to  think  of  you  and  mother  here,  Angela.  I  wish 
we  could  all  have  stayed  here  together ;  but  she  says 
that  is  impossible.  I  don't  know  why ;  except  that  I'm 
afraid  she  doesn't  care  for  Margaret.  Well,  I  suppose 
I  must  talk  to  Margaret,  and  get  something  settled. 
Would  you  mind  very  much,  Angela,  if  she  were  to  dis- 
cuss it  with  you,  after  I  have  spoken  to  her?  " 

"With  me,  Henry?" 

"  Yes.  If  mother  doesn't  care  for  her,  it  would  be 
awkward  for  both  of  them,  wouldn't  it?  You  like  her, 
don't  you,  Angela?  You  seem  to  get  on  well  together. 
She  likes  you,  I  know." 

"  Does  she,  Henry?  " 

"  Yes.  I  told  her  how  fond  I  was  of  you  —  how  you 
had  always  lived  here,  and  that  the  place  wouldn't 
seem  like  itself  without  you.  She  said  something  —  I 
forget  what  —  which  showed  that  she  understood  — 
and  appreciated  you." 

The  girl  laughed  again  —  a  full  clear  laugh,  and 
then  rose  from  her  seat.  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  was 
coming  through  the  archway  from  the  next  garden. 

VIII 

Kimmeridge  rose  too,  when  he  saw  her.  "  We  have 
just  been  having  a  most  serious  talk,"  he  said  with  his 
benevolent  smile ;  "  and  now  I  want  you  two  to  have  a 
talk."     A  bright  idea  struck  him.     "  I'll  leave  you  to- 


128         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

gether,"  he  said.  "  You  will  do  it  all  much  better  with- 
out me." 

His  hurried  departure  was  so  obviously  a  nervous 
flight,  that  Angela,  in  spite  of  herself,  laughed  again. 
But  she  resumed  her  seat.  She  would  go  through  with 
it,  for  the  sake  of  her  dear  friend,  who  seemed  to  ex- 
pect something  of  her,  though  she  had  said  nothing. 
And  it  would  be  rather  interesting  to  herself,  too, 
though  not  altogether  free  from  hazard. 

Margaret  Platter,  with  a  glance  at  her  disappearing 
fiance,  took  the  seat  that  he  had  vacated,  and  said,  in 
her  slow  self-possessed  wa y  :  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  listen 
to  anything  you  may  have  to  say  to  me." 

"  Henry  is  worried,"  said  Angela,  after  a  short  pause. 
"  He  has  been  so  used  to  having  all  his  arrangements 
made  for  him  by  Cousin  Helen,  that  he  has  almost  lost 
the  power  of  making  any  for  himself." 

"  Is  he  worried  about  the  arrangements  for  our  mar- 
riage?" asked  Margaret  Platter,  coming  at  once  to 
the  point,  as  her  way  was. 

"  Yes.  He  has  grasped  the  fact  that  in  the  ordinary 
way  you  would  be  married  from  your  own  home ;  but  he 
says  that  you  object  to  that,  although  he  cannot  re- 
member why." 

This  looked  like  mere  "  cattiness."  Margaret  Plat- 
ter's face  hardened  as  she  said :  "  You  at  least  must 
know  why.  If  he  has  forgotten  what  I  said,  Lady  Kim- 
meridge  hasn't." 

"  But  I  am  not  Lady  Kimmeridge,  you  see,"  said  the 
girl. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Lady  Kimmeridge  has  not  told 
you  what  I  said  to  her  about  my  parentage?" 

"  She  has  never  mentioned  3'our  name  to  me,  except 
as  that  of  some  one  staying  in  the  house." 


«  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  129 

This  was  a  complete  surprise,  but  it  brought  no  re- 
lief. Silence  seemed  a  strange  weapon  to  fight  with; 
but  contemptuous  silence,  as  this  was,  had  power  to 
wound. 

"  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  parentage,"  Dr.  Margaret 
Platter  said,  speaking  more  hurriedly  than  was  her 
wont ;  "  but  it  is  because  of  it  that  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  be  married  from  my  own  home.  What  I  told 
Lady  Kimmeridge,  and  Henry,  was  that  I  had  raised 
myself  from  a  very  humble  position.  My  brothers  and 
sisters  have  raised  themselves  too,  but  my  parents  re- 
main what  they  were.  I  am  very  fond  of  them,  but  just 
as  it  has  been  impossible  that  they  should  share  in  the 
life  I  have  lived  for  some  years  past,  so  it  is  impossible 
that  they  should  share  in  the  life  I  am  going  to  live. 
They  would  admit  it  themselves.  It  is  a  matter  between 
me  and  them." 

Angela's  brain  had  been  busy  during  this  speech. 
She  was  trying  to  find  a  point  on  which  to  support  her- 
self. She  knew  that  if  Henry  were  to  be  brought  out 
of  this  entanglement,  it  must  be  on  the  initiative  of  the 
woman  who  in  her  view  had  brought  him  into  it.  His 
mother  must  have  seen  that,  already,  and  her  wonderful 
silence  must  mean  that  she  expected  Angela  to  see  it,  and 
trusted  her  to  act,  in  her  own  way,  when  the  opportunity 
should  come  to  her.  It  had  come  now;  she  would  do 
what  she  could  with  it. 

"  Henry  could  hardly  be  expected  to  understand  a 
feeling  of  that  sort,"  she  said. 

The  words  stung,  though  they  had  been  spoken  with 
no  inflection  of  contempt.  From  one  who  had  less  com- 
mand of  herself  than  Margaret  Platter  they  would  have 
drawn  something  that  would  have  provided  an  opening ; 
but  all  slie  said  was :     "  I  am  not  concerned  to  defend 


130         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

it.  You,  probably,  would  not  understand  me  if  I  did. 
That  sort  of  complication  does  not  come  into  your  life. 
You  are  what  you  were  born  ;  I  am  what  I  have  made 
myself." 

"  It  is  a  complication  that  has  to  be  met,  I  suppose. 
As  Henry  wants  me  to  discuss  it  with  you,  and  you  have 
said  that  you  would  be  pleased  to  do  so,  I  needn't  apolo- 
gize for  saying  that." 

"  I  didn't  know  what  it  was  that  lie  wanted  you  to 
discuss  with  me.  It  seems  to  me  very  extraordinary 
that  you  and  I  should  be  talking  about  these  matters 
at  all." 

"  Why?  "  asked  Angela,  with  an  inward  smile.  Her 
father  who  had  a  military  bee  in  his  bonnet,  and  pressed 
it  upon  all  who  were  willing  to  listen  to  him,  and  many 
who  were  not,  had  told  her  that  one  of  the  most  effective 
weapons  in  argument  was  the  judicious  use  of  the  ques- 
tions "Why?"  or  "Why  not?"  But  she  had  not 
thought  that  there  would  some  day  be  profit  to  herself 
in  the  lesson. 

Margaret  Platter  met  the  question  with  another. 
"  Whatever  arrangements  have  to  be  made  about  our 
marriage  would  hardly  be  made  by  you,  would  they?" 

Angela  resisted  the  temptation  to  ask,  "  Why  not?  " 
and  asked  instead:  "Would  you  expect  them  to  be 
made  by  Lady  Kimmeridge?  I  told  you  that  she  had 
said  nothing  to  me ;  but  of  course  I  know  that  she  does 
not  want  Henry  to  marry  you." 

"  llow  do  you  know  that.  Miss  Luttrell,  if  she  has 
said  nothing  to  you?" 

"  Is  it  really  necessary  for  me  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion '  » 

Again  the  words  were  said  quietly,  and  again  they 
stung.      Margaret  Platter  spoke  quietly  in  return,  but 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  131 

with  a  slight  flush  on  her  cheeks.  "  Do  you  think  that 
I  am  such  an  impossible  wife  for  your  cousin?"  she 
asked.  "  We  have  the  same  tastes ;  he  said  himself  — 
and  it  is  true  —  that  there  will  be  more  in  common  be- 
tween us  than  between  most  married  people.  He  thinks 
little  of  his  birth  and  rank,  compared  with  other  things, 
and  in  those  other  things  I  am  more  his  equal  than  al- 
most any  other  woman  you  could  find.  Is  it  his  happi- 
ness that  Lady  Kimmeridge  wants,  and  you  want  —  or 
what  is  it?  " 

"  His  happiness  is  all  that  either  of  us  wants."  The 
opening  had  been  taken.  Angela  only  had  to  wait  now 
for  her  opportunity.     It  came  at  once. 

"  Then  how  would  you  propose  to  secure  his  happi- 
ness, if  he  had  asked  you  to  marry  him,  instead  of  me? 
I  ask  without  meaning  offence.     I  want  to  know." 

"  He  did  ask  me  to  marry  him." 

There  was  complete  silence.  Angela  sat  with  her 
chin  resting  on  her  hand,  looking  out  over  the  smooth 
lawn  and  the  still  water.  Margaret  Platter  threw  one 
look  at  her,  and  looked  on  the  ground. 

"  He  asked  me  two  months  ago,"  said  Angela,  "  in 
this  very  place.     I  think  he  has  forgotten  it  now." 

"  You  refused  him,  I  suppose."  The  words  came 
awkwardly,  as  if  something  had  to  be  said  —  it  did  not 
much  matter  what. 

"  The  fact  that  he  has  forgotten  it  shows  that  I  was 
right  to  refuse  him.  Also  the  fact  that  he  asked  you 
so  soon  afterwards.  ...  I  hope  he  won't  forget  that 
too." 

The  last  sentence,  tacked  on,  apparently  as  an  after- 
thought, was  not  in  her  plan ;  she  was  not  of  an  age  to 
use  the  strong  self-control  of  Lady  Kimmeridge.  But 
it  was   a  very  effective   sentence.     Margaret   Platter 


132         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

could  only  swallow  the  damaging  indictment  which  it 
implied,  but  she  did  so  with  an  anger  that,  however 
successfully  she  might  hide  it.  reduced  her  powers  as 
an  antagonist. 

"  I  think  we  are  getting  away  from  the  point,"  she 
said  ;  and  her  voice  was  not  quite  steady.  '"If  you  have 
a  greater  interest  in  Henry  than  I  thought  you  had,  I 
shall  be  all  the  more  ready  to  listen  to  you,  if  you  will 
tell  me  what  it  is  vou  want  to  sav  to  me  on  his  be- 
half." 

"  You  see,  Cousin  Helen  and  I  have  always  done  what 
we  could  to  spare  him  all  distractions  from  outside. 
He  has  been  able  to  devote  himself  to  his  work,  and 
enjoy  his  life  away  from  it  —  a  good  deal  more,  I  think, 
than  he  has  had  any  real  idea  of.  He  loves  Steynes  — 
the  house  and  the  garden  and  the  country  round,  and 
the  people  he  has  known  all  his  life.  He  takes  it  all  very 
quietly,  but  I  don't  believe  he  would  be  happy  without 
it :  and  it  is  all  a  real  recreation  to  him,  as  he  is  spared 
all  the  trouble  in  connection  with  such  a  place  as  this. 
Of  course,  it  is  odd,  as  you  said  just  now,  that  he  should 
come  to  me  about  the  particular  bother  that  is  spoiling 
his  contentment  now:  at  least,  it  must  seem  odd  to  any 
one  who  knows  him  so  little  as  3rou  do.  But  he  has 
always  been  used  to  come  to  me,  about  little  things, 
and  about  some  bigger  ones  that  he  didn't  want  to  go  to 
Cousin  Helen  for;  so  I  said  I  would  help  him  if  I  could." 

"  I  think  you  arc  trying  to  put  me  in  a  false  position, 
Miss  Luttrell."  She  was  very  angry  now.  and  less 
mistress  of  herself  than  she  had  thought  it  possible  she 
could  he,  under  any  circumstances.  "  I  won't  be  so 
vulgar  as  to  say  that  you  dislike  me  because  your 
cousin  has  asked  me  to  marry  him  so  soon  after  he 
asked  you.      That  may  have  something  to  do  with  it; 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  133 

but  jour  real  reason  for  disliking  the  idea  of  our  mar- 
riage is  that  you  don't  think  I  am  his  social  equal. 
Under  all  the  circumstances,  that  seems  to  me  a  view 
that  is  only  contemptible.  He  is  far  too  big  a  man  to 
feel  it  himself,  and  the  cause  of  offence  against  me  seems 
to  be  chiefly  that  I  am  willing  to  face  it  in  order  to 
keep  away  from  him  any  difficulties  that  it  might  bring." 

This  somewhat  contradictory  speech  enshrined  the 
same  mistake  as  had  given  Lady  Kimmeridge  her  ad- 
vantage.    Angela  was  not  less  ready  to  take  hers. 

"  I  don't  think  social  inequality  would  matter  in  the 
least,"  she  said,  "  between  two  people  who  really  loved 
one  another." 

Margaret  Platter  bit  her  lip.  She  had  delivered  her- 
self into  her  adversary's  hands. 

Angela  pressed  her  advantage,  relentlessly. 
"  Whether  the  reason  you  have  given  for  my  disliking 
you  is  true  or  not,  I  shouldn't  think  of  denying  that 
I  am  very  fond  of  my  cousin ;  and  one  can  hardly  be 
blamed  for  not  liking  some  one  who  looks  upon  him  as 
a  person  to  use  for  a  climb-up." 

"  Oh,  but  this  is  too  much !  "  Dr.  Margaret  Platter 
rose  to  her  full  height,  and  glared  down  upon  the  girl, 
who  still  sat  with  her  chin  in  her  hand,  looking  out  over 
the  lawn  and  the  water.  "  How  dare  you  say  such  a 
thing  to  me?  " 

Angela  sat  back  in  her  seat  and  looked  up  at  her. 
"  I'm  not  afraid  of  being  vulgar,"  she  said. 

IX 

Whatever  this  uncomfortable  interview  may  have  ef- 
fected, it  had  done  nothing  to  settle  the  point  that  Kim- 
meridge had  wanted  to  have  settled  by  it.     It  had,  more- 


134         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

over,  made  it  plain  to  Dr.  Margaret  Platter  that  the 
point  would  have  to  be  settled  by  her,  if  it  were  to  be 
Bettled  at  all. 

When  she  had  walked  away  from  the  scat  by  the 
lily  pond,  with  as  much  dignity  as  she  could  muster  un- 
der the  disagreeable  consciousness  of  Angela's  eyes 
following  her,  it  had  been  in  her  mind  that  she  would 
settle  it  by  giving  up  the  game.  The  qualities  which  had 
brought  her  so  far  upon  her  upward  road  had  included 
a  strong  belief  in  her  own  integrity  of  purpose,  and  the 
fact  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  defend  herself  against 
the  contempt  that  Angela  had  shown  for  the  purpose  she 
was  embracing  now  very  nearly  opened  her  eyes  to  its 
virtual  indefensibility. 

But  not  quite.  If  it  would  be  an  impossible  task  to 
convince  Angela,  or  Lady  Kimmeridge,  that  it  was  not 
for  his  wealth  and  rank  that  she  was  going  to  marry 
Lord  Kimmeridge,  she  was  still  able  to  convince  her- 
self. She  would  not  deny  that  the  wealth  and  rank 
counted,  but  what  counted  more  was  the  large  oppor- 
tunities she  would  be  given  by  such  a  marriage.  Sup- 
posing Kimmeridge  had  gained  his  honours  for  the  work 
he  had  done  as  a  scientist,  no  one  would  have  thought 
it  anything  but  an  admirable  arrangement  that  he 
should  marry  one  so  closety  allied  to  all  his  interests. 
Where  was  the  difference?  As  for  that  question  of 
love,  which  she  had  not  been  able  to  answer  to  Angela's 
satisfaction,  it  was  not  a  matter  to  be  discussed  with 
a  sentimental  girl.  She  would  bring  quite  as  much  in 
that  respect  as  the  other  party  to  the  contract,  and 
both  of  them  were  satisfied  with  what  would  be  brought. 

On  these  points  she  could  argue  in  her  own  favour, 
and  had  to  do  so  if  she  were  to  keep  her  self-respect. 
On  the  other  point  —  of  her  attitude  towards  her  own 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  135 

family  —  she  had  no  need  to  argue.  She  felt  herself 
to  be  right,  and  was  hot  against  those  who  would  put 
her  in  the  wrong.  A  man  who  had  raised  himself  in  the 
same  way  as  she  had,  and  wished  to  marry  a  woman  of 
the  status  to  which  he  had  attained,  would  act  in  the 
same  way,  and  nobody  would  blame  him.  Why  should 
a  woman  be  blamed?  Her  parents  would  not  grudge 
the  sacrifice  on  her  behalf.  They  had  already  made 
similar  sacrifices  on  a  smaller  scale,  and  even  taken  a 
pride  in  them.  It  was  a  matter  between  her  and  them, 
and  it  was  not  on  their  behalf  that  the  hypocritical 
censure  had  been  offered.  If  any  one  would  be  pained 
by  the  necessity  of  keeping  them  aloof,  it  would  be  she ; 
but  she  would  do  it  as  a  concession  to  her  husband's 
rank,  partly  even  as  a  concession  to  the  very  relations 
who  pretended  to  find  something  so  shocking  in  it. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  easy  for  them  to  understand  how 
little  such  adjustments  were  resented  by  people  in  the 
position  of  her  parents,  to  whom  payment  in  this  coin- 
age for  the  eagerly  desired  advancement  of  their  chil- 
dren was  foreseen  and  allowed  for  from  the  first.  But 
they  did  not  want  to  understand  it;  they  wanted  a 
weapon  against  her. 

There  was  also  in  her  mind  the  feminine  disinclina- 
tion to  give  up  a  capture  to  a  rival.  This  girl  had 
refused  the  offer  made  to  her ;  but  it  was  plain  that  she 
would  accept  it  if  it  were  renewed  in  a  way  that  suited 
her.  That  side  of  the  question,  however,  would  not 
bear  too  close  an  examination.  The  implication  that 
she  herself  had  jumped  at  an  offer  which  the  girl  had 
not  been  able  to  accept  without  loss  of  self-respect 
rankled  more  deeply  than  anything.  It  made  her  blush 
hotly  to  think  of  the  way  in  which  she  had  invited  the 
statement,  and  the  way  in  which  it  had  been  made. 


13G         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

The  result  of  the  passage  at  arms  was  that  she  was 
shaken,  but  not  yet  dislodged,  from  her  purpose :  but  that 
was  not  its  only  result.  She  saw  now  that  she  ought  to 
have  acted  on  Kimmeridgc's  expressed  wish  for  a 
prompt,  and  almost  a  Becret,  wedding.  It  was  exactly 
what  she  wanted  herself,  and  all  her  immediate  difficul- 
tiea  would  be  solved  by  it  in  a  way  she  could  hardly  have 
hoped  for.  It  was  true  that  she  would  have  had  to 
make  all  the  arrangements  for  the  wedding  herself,  since 
he  was  apparently  incapable  of  bestirring  himself  even 
upon  such  a  matter  as  that.  It  would  have  been  some- 
what humiliating,  but  hardly  more  so  than  to  have 
waited  on  under  the  present  circumstances  for  some- 
body else  to  act,  when  there  was  nobody  who  would  do 
so.  And  if  she  had  taken  the  step  they  might  have  been 
man  and  wife  by  this  time.  She  had  no  fears  of  what 
should  come  after ;  it  was  only  this  wretched  little  ob- 
stacle of  the  mere  mechanism  of  marriage  that  stood  in 
the  way  of  what  would  be  her  triumph. 

It  was  natural  that  her  feelings  towards  the  man 
whom  she  wished  to  marry  should  be  tinged  with  irrita- 
tion. She  did  full  justice  to  his  remarkable  powers  in 
a  line  in  which  she  was  as  capable  of  estimating  ability 
as  anybody.  She  had  the  same  sort  of  powers  herself, 
but  would  have  been  ashamed  if  they  had  left  her  with- 
out any  capacity  to  deal  with  affairs  apart  from  those 
involved  in  scientific  work.  She  could  not  believe  that 
he  was  so  helpless  as  he  appeared  to  be.  His  women- 
folk had  spoilt  him;  it  was  like  her  father,  who  had  al- 
ways said  that  he  was  incapable  of  carving  a  joint,  but 
carved  it  very  well  when  her  mother  was  not  there  to 
do  it.  She  thought  that  at  least  he  might  be  wound 
up  to  take  the  few  steps  that  had  to  be  taken,  if  she 
found  out  and  told  him  what  they  were. 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  137 

The  prospect,  however,  of  doing  anything  at  all 
seemed  to  cause  him  the  deepest  dismay,  when  she  told 
him  that  she  thought  the  simplest  way  would  be  for 
them  to  be  married  in  London,  at  a  Registry  Office,  and 
if  he  approved  of  that  she  would  find  out  what  formali- 
ties had  to  be  gone  through  and  let  him  know  exactly 
what  he  would  have  to  do  to  meet  them. 

"  But  that  means  all  sorts  of  bothers,"  he  said,  plain- 
tively ;  "  and  most  likely  I  should  have  to  go  up  to 
London  beforehand,  and  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do 
when  I  got  there." 

"  I  could  find  out  for  you  exactly  what  would  have 
to  be  done,"  she  said,  fighting  down  her  annoyance. 
"  It  would  not  be  so  very  difficult,  especially  for  a  man 
of  your  capacity." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Margaret,  my  capacity  is  a  very  one- 
sided affair,  as  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  out.  I  don't 
quite  like  the  idea  of  a  Registry  Office.  Surely  that  isn't 
necessary,  is  it?  " 

"  You  would  prefer  to  be  married  in  a  church  ?  " 
She  had  hardly  expected  this  weakness  from  an  en- 
lightened scientist. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  more  fitting.  One  has  to  con- 
sider one's  position  to  a  certain  extent." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  heard  him  refer  to 
it,  and  did  not  understand  that  he  was  only  repeating 
a  lesson  learnt.  "  I  think  my  mother  would  say  that  we 
ought  to  be  married  in  a  church,"  he  said. 

"  She  doesn't  seem  to  care  about  anything  to  do  with 
it,"  she  replied,  with  a  bitterness  of  feeling  that  was  not 
entirely  absent  from  her  voice. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  I  wish  it  were 
otherwise.  It  was  partly  because  — "  He  broke  off. 
Even  he  saw  that  it  would  not  gratify  her  to  be  told 


138         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

that  it  was  partly  to  please  his  mother  that  lie  had 
asked  her  to  marry  him.  "  She  will  not  move  in  the 
matter,  and  I  am  so  used,  I'm  afraid,  to  relying  upon 
her,  and  Angela,  for  —  By  the  by,  you  were  to  talk 
it  over  with  Angela,  weren't  you?  You  haven't  told 
me  yet  what  passed  between  you.  It  wasn't  her  idea, 
was  it  —  surely   not  —  the   registry   office?" 

How  blundering  and  irritating  he  was,  with  all  his 
kindness!  She  was  stung  into  saying:  "Naturally, 
we  didn't  talk  over  such  questions.  I  was  surprised  to 
learn  that  you  had  expected  such  a  thing,  when  you  ran 
away  from  us." 

He  looked  distressed.  "  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  clumsy  sort 
of  person,"  he  said.  "  But  I've  been  so  used  to  reiving 
upon  dear  Angela,  as  well  as  upon  my  mother.  I'm 
sorry  if  I  offended  you  in  any  way.  Of  course  I  had 
no  such  intention.     What  did  you  talk  about,  then?" 

The  "  dear  Angela  "  tried  her  hard.  "  I  think  you 
must  learn  to  rely  upon  me,  and  not  upon  Miss  Lut- 
trell,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  of  course ;  but  not  quite  in  the  same  way. 
We  shall  be  hard  at  work  together.  It  is  chiefly  what 
we  are  marrying  for,  isn't  it?  You  won't  have  the  time 
to  devote  to  all  the  thousand  and  one  little  questions 
that  arise  when  one  is  burdened  with  a  large  house  and 
estate." 

"  But  surely  you  are  not  proposing  —  !  I  mean, 
Miss  Luttrell  isn't  going  to  live  with  us." 

He  had  been  sitting  reading  by  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  laboratory,  which  was  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and 
commanded  a  lovely  view  of  the  gardens,  park,  and 
well-wooded  country  beyond,  which  rose  and  fell  in  soft 
undulations  until  it  reached  the  sea,  five  miles  away. 
He  looked  out  over  the  fair  scene,  and  his  face  fell. 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  139 

"  I  had  forgotten  for  the  moment,"  he  said.  "  We  are 
going  to  leave  Steynes,  aren't  we?  After  all,  I  shall 
be  sorry.  I  would  gladly  have  exchanged  this  for  Lon- 
don, six  or  seven  years  ago ;  but  now  I  have  got  used  to 
it.  And  it  has  been  Angela's  home  ever  since  she  was 
a  little  girl.     She  seems  to  belong  to  it  all." 

"  Is  that  why  you  asked  her  to  marry  you,  a  few 
weeks  ago  ?  " 

She  would  have  recalled  the  words  directly  they  were 
spoken.  He  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  she  said  hur- 
riedly, with  a  laugh :  "  Oh,  she  told  me  about  it ;  and 
that  you  weren't  in  earnest." 

He  said  nothing,  but  turned  away  his  gaze,  and  al- 
lowed it  to  rest  on  the  woods  and  the  distant  sea. 

"  I  shall  do  everything  I  can,"  she  said,  still  speaking 
hurriedly,  "  to  relieve  you  of  the  bothers  that  your 
mother  has  taken  on  her  shoulders.  I  am  quite  capable 
of  doing  it.  If  you  prefer  to  live  here,  I  am  quite  will- 
ing; and,  from  what  you  said,  she  expected  that,  until 
you  suggested  London  yourself." 

He  brought  his  eyes  back  to  her.  For  the  first  time 
they  held  criticism.  "  I  hadn't  thought  of  you  in  that 
connection  at  all,"  he  said.  "  I  doubt  if  you  could  do 
what  my  mother  does,  even  if  you  had  no  other  work 
to  do.  I'm  quite  sure  you  couldn't  do  both.  No,  I'm 
afraid  we  must  make  up  our  minds  to  leave  Steynes  to 
her.  I  had  hoped  that  we  might  all  have  lived  here  to- 
gether, but  — " 

"  I  wouldn't  live  here  with  Miss  Luttrell,"  she  said. 
She  was  fast  ceasing  to  care  what  effect  her  words  might 
have  upon  his  view  of  the  situation.  She  had  been  pre- 
pared to  stifle  her  inward  revolts,  but  not  to  play  an 
obsequious  part  to  make  secure  the  honour  he  had  con- 
ferred upon  her. 


UO  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

M  You  do  not  like  Angela,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  am 
afraid  you  do  not  like  my  mother."  He  looked  up  at 
her  suddenly,  and  asked  with  a  whimsical  smile:  "  Are 
you  Mire  you  like  me?  " 


Did  she  like  him  —  enough  to  go  through  with  it? 
Thai  Mas  what  she  asked  herself  when  she  was  alone. 
She  had  made  some  non-serious  reply  to  his  disconcert- 
ing question,  and,  the  dressing-bell  ringing  at  that  mo- 
ment, they  had  parted,  with  nothing  further  settled  be- 
tween  them. 

Upon  the  meeting-ground  of  their  common  task,  she 
liked  him  as  well  as  any  man  she  knew.  It  was  an  in- 
spiration to  work  with  him,  and  he  gave  such  ungrudg- 
ing praise  to  her  as  a  fellow-worker  that  the  prospect 
of  a  lifelong  partnership  in  scientific  discovery  had  been 
nothing  but  a  delight.  She  also  recognized  that  his 
unfailing  courtesy  and  gentleness  had  their  roots  in  a 
fine  nature,  that  would  never  fail  her.  They  had 
warmed  her  feelings  towards  him,  and  if  he  had  shown 
any  signs  of  regarding  her  with  interest  as  a  woman, 
and  not  merely  as  a  fellow-scientist,  it  might  not  have 
been  long  before  the  weakest  point  in  her  position,  so 
unfailingly  marked  by  Lady  Kimmeridge  and  Angela, 
would  have  been  the  strongest.  She  might  easily  have 
come  to  love  him,  and  then  nothing  else  that  now  mat- 
tend  so  much  would  have  mattered  at  all.  She  would 
have  loved  even  his  helplessness,  as  the  two  other 
women  loved  it,  and  she  would  gladly  have  sacrificed 
some  of  the  honours  that  might  be  expected  to  come  to 
her,  for  the  sake  of  sparing  him  the  distractions  that 
his  condition  in  life  brought  upon  him. 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  141 

But  already  the  glamour  was  beginning  to  fade.  As 
for  the  work  they  were  to  do  together,  it  was  plain  that 
the  edge  of  her  own  capacity  was  blunted  by  the  divided 
attention  which  was  all  she  could  bring  to  it.  She 
knew  well  enough  that  she  was  not  helping  him  now 
in  the  work  that  they  had  in  hand,  but  hindering  him. 
For  his  capacity  was  dulled  too,  and  never  could  be  at 
at  its  brightest  unless  he  could  give  his  whole  mind  to 
his  work,  as  hitherto  the  protecting  care  of  his  mother 
had  enabled  him  to  do.  Whether  love  was  in  question 
or  not,  she  would  hare  to  take  his  mother's  place  sooner 
or  later,  if  his  career  was  not  to  be  spoilt,  as  well  as  her 
own.     Was  it  good  enough? 

What  would  she  gain?  As  she  dressed  for  dinner 
in  the  large  comfortable  room  which  had  struck  so 
pleasantly  on  her  senses  when  she  had  first  come  to 
Steynes  Park,  she  was  conscious  no  longer  of  satisfac- 
tion in  her  surroundings.  She  had  become  used  to 
them.  The  very  dressing  for  dinner  was  one  of  those 
observances,  wasteful  of  time  and  energy,  which  she  was 
fastening  on  herself  for  her  whole  life.  Even  the  din- 
ner itself,  that  would  follow,  comparatively  simple  as 
all  domestic  arrangements  were  for  so  great  a  house, 
would  be  irksomely  long  and  elaborate  to  her,  brought 
up  as  she  had  been.  And  the  long  evening  afterwards, 
passed  in  desultory  talk,  or  at  best  with  some  music 
from  Angela  to  lighten  the  boredom !  It  was  true  that, 
with  the  armed  truce  that  existed  between  her  and  the 
two  ladies,  the  evenings  as  they  were  spent  now  were 
worse  than  anything  she  would  have  to  look  forward 
to  later.  The  playing  of  a  part,  which  had  become 
almost  intolerably  wearisome  to  her,  would  not  last 
for  ever.  But  Kimmeridge  showed  that  he  liked  this 
compete  absence  of  effort  of  every  sort,  as  a  relief  from 


148         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

his  strenuous  hours.  He  liked  to  linger  over  the  table 
at  meal-times;  he  liked  to  sit  in  an  easy  chair  and  listen 
to  Angela's  music,  or  outside  on  the  terrace,  chatting 
idly,  about  nothing  at  all,  or  about  nothing  that  held 
any  interest  for  her.  In  the  early  days  of  her  visit, 
before  he  had  proposed  to  her,  he  and  she  had  done 
an  hour  or  two's  work  late  in  the  evening,  but  Lady 
Kimmeridge  had  begged  her  to  discourage  this.  If 
his  brain  was  excited,  he  didn't  sleep  well.  It  had  hap- 
pened before  that  he  had  broken  down  under  the  strain  of 
night  as  well  as  day  work.  Lately  he  had  not  wanted 
to  do  it,  and  had  even  shortened  their  hours  of  work 
in  the  daytime. 

She  thought  of  the  merry  evenings  she  had  spent  in 
her  own  poor  confined  home,  with  talk  and  argument 
upon  every  subject  under  the  sun  —  all  at  their  ease, 
all  pleased  with  one  another,  nobody  standing  on  any 
ceremony,  if  they  wanted  to  go  away  and  do  something 
else.  That  had  been  real  refreshment ;  and  the  ab- 
sorbing important  life-work  had  been  behind  it,  for 
all  of  them  to  go  back  to,  braced  and  exhilarated. 

But  to  spend  these  long  evenings  with  him  alone! 
It  would  hardly  be  better  than  to  spend  them  with  him 
and  his  mother  and  cousin.  He  had  no  intellectual  in- 
terests outside  his  immediate  scientific  pursuits ;  even 
his  social  interests  were  meagre;  he  would  not  care  to 
be  constantly  meeting  other  people.  He  liked  to  be 
talked  to  by  his  womenfolk,  to  make  little  jokes  with 
them,  to  bask  in  the  quiet  atmosphere  of  their  affection 
for  him.  That  was  the  "  job  "  she  would  have  to  take 
on  —  to  keep  him  mildly  amused  in  his  hours  of  recrea- 
tion —  she  whose  active  mind  wanted  constant  stimu- 
lus, and  who  had  a  hundred  interests  outside  that  of 
her  chosen  work. 


"IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE"  148 

What  would  she  gain  as  the  wife  of  Lord  Kimmeridge, 
to  balance  all  that  she  would  lose,  in  freedom  of  action, 
zest  for  daily  life,  and  the  career  that  would  be  spoilt 
by  the  new  and  strange  duties  that  would  be  heaped  upon 
her  shoulders?  A  title;  wealth;  a  beautiful  house;  a 
high  and  assured  position.  Of  what  use  would  any  of 
them  be  to  her  under  the  conditions  in  which  she  would 
have  them? 

If  she  asked  herself  these  questions,  it  was  without 
searching  diligently  for  a  reply.  She  went  downstairs 
to  meet  the  women  who  despised  her,  and  the  man  whom 
she  was  beginning  a  little  to  despise,  determined  to  hold 
to  her  conquest. 

XI 

Dr.  Margaret  Platter  afterwards  remembered  that 
evening  as  the  most  irksome  she  had  ever  spent  in  her 
life.  Sometimes,  in  the  charming  restful  room  they 
usually  occupied,  when  Angela  had  been  playing,  she 
had  been  able  to  lighten  her  weariness  by  a  half-sur- 
reptitious glance  through  a  book  or  a  magazine,  while 
Kimmeridge  sat  and  smoked  interminable  cigarettes, 
and  his  mother  occupied  herself  with  needle-work.  She 
always  manoeuvred  for  a  seat  near  a  table,  so  that  she 
might  take  up  whatever  printed  matter  there  was  upon 
it  whenever  the  chance  came.  But  this  evening  they  sat 
on  the  terrace  just  outside  the  morning-room,  and  when 
Angela  did  go  in  to  play,  she  still  had  to  sit  on,  doing 
nothing,  which  was  purgatory  to  her. 

Kimmeridge  was  more  than  usually  silent.  He 
smoked  one  cigarette  after  another,  scarcely  speak- 
ing a  word,  for  over  an  hour.  Then  he  seemed  to  rouse 
himself.     It  was  when  Angela  had  shut  the  piano,  and 


144  THE  CLINTON'S,  AND  OTHERS 

came  and  stood  just  outside  the  long  open  window  — 
a  graceful  figure  in  her  wlute  dress,  leaning  against  the 
window-frame.  "  Thank  you,  Angela,"  he  said,  look- 
ing up  at  her.  "  You  played  just  the  right  things. 
Could  one  want  anything  better  than  to  sit  out  of  doors 
on  this  lovely  night,  and  listen  to  quiet  beautiful  music 
—  perhaps  a  shade  sad,  like  those  Nocturnes:  " 

He  had  half-turned  towards  Margaret  Platter,  spe- 
cially inviting  her  acquiescence  in  his  enjoyment.  With 
all  his  curious  deficiencies  in  understanding,  he  never 
failed  to  show  those  little  courtesies  which  would  make 
her  feel  that  she  was  part  of  the  circle. 

She  had  an  impulse  of  impatient  revolt.  She  was 
entirely  without  ear  for  music,  and  had  hardly  been  able 
to  support  the  intense  boredom  of  the  long  hour  that 
had  just  passed.  Nor  had  the  beauty  of  the  summer 
night  and  the  mysterious  moonlit  loveliness  of  the  garden 
moved  her.  How  willingly  would  she  have  exchanged 
it  for  the  crowded  gaslit  streets  of  Camden  Town,  where 
her  parents  lived !  She  had  no  particular  love  for 
Camden  Town  as  a  residential  locality,  but  at  any  rate 
there  was  life  there,  instead  of  these  long  terrible  hours 
of  stagnation. 

And  this  was  what  he  liked! 

He  began  to  talk  now,  gently  and  reminiscentlv.  He 
talked  of  Steynes  —  of  his  boyhood,  of  all  sorts  of  little 
foolish  episodes  that  had  taken  place  here  and  there, 
in  this  or  that  room  of  the  house,  or  spot  in  the  garden, 
or  in  the  woods  or  by  the  sea;  mentioning  many  people 
by  name  —  old  servants,  old  friends  in  cottages  and 
farmhouses.  Lady  Kimmeridge  and  Angela  took  their 
part  in  the  conversation,  all  three  of  them  giving  them- 
selves up  to  the  gentle  flow  of  reminiscence  —  drivel, 
Margaret  Platter  thought  it  —  that  gave  a  tender  hu- 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  145 

man  meaning  to  the  fair  and  spacious  house  and  all 
about  it  that  they  loved  so  well. 

When  ten  o'clock  struck  from  the  clock  on  the  stable 
turret,  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  pleaded  a 
slight  headache  and  said  good-night.  Her  bedroom, 
in  which  she  could  read,  or  write  if  she  wanted  to,  was  a 
haven  from  this  intolerable  dulness.  When  she  reached 
it  she  made  movements  of  anger  and  disgust.  It  would 
have  relieved  her  to  smash  something.  She  made  a 
strong  resolve  that  when  she  was  once  married  she 
would  fight  against  this  desolating  stagnation.  She 
would  do  her  duty  by  her  husband,  but  she  would  refuse 
to  waste  long  valuable  hours  sitting  with  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  talking  about  nothing. 

Angela  slipped  off  not  long  afterwards,  and  Kim- 
meridge  and  his  mother  were  left  alone  together.  Their 
usual  hour  for  retiring  was  between  ten  and  half  past, 
but  if  he  showed  any  inclination  to  sit  on,  she  usually 
bore  him  company.  Her  brain  was  as  active  as  Mar- 
garet Platter's:  the  life  she  now  lived  was  as  different 
as  possible  from  what  it  had  been  during  the  lifetime  of 
her  husband,  or  even  when  her  son  had  been  a  bov,  and 
there  had  been  many  guests  at  Steynes.  But  she  was 
conscious  of  no  weariness  in  adapting  herself  to  his 
needs.  That  was  because  she  loved  him.  She  took  a 
great  pride  in  his  scientific  achievements,  and  looked 
to  see  him  rise  to  the  summit  of  fame.  And  she  knew 
so  well  the  conditions  under  which  alone  he  could  do 
full  justice  to  himself.  His  brain,  so  fiercely  active 
during  his  hours  of  work,  wanted  nothing  but  rest  out- 
side them:  and  his  bodily  strength  was  only  equal  to  the 
demands  which  his  concentration  made  upon  it,  if  it 
was  carefully  conserved  and  watched  over.  She  gave 
herself  gladly  to  the  task,  and  had  her  reward  in  the 


146         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

rather  pathetic  dependence  he  showed  towards  her.  It 
always  touched  her  —  that  he  should  be  so  contented 
with  her  companionship,  in  his  hours  of  recreation  — 
hers  and  Angela's;  for  she  thought  that  Angela  loved 
him  too,  and  would  be  glad  to  give  herself  to  him  in  the 
same  way. 

lie  threw  away  his  cigarette,  and  took  another  out 
of  his  case.  "  I  want  to  say  something  to  you,  dear 
mother,"  he  said. 

A  spurt  of  hope  lit  up  the  blank  fear  and  dejection 
of  her  mind.  Her  quiet:  "Yes,  Henry,"  was  said  on 
an  involuntary  intake  of  breath. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  made  a  mistake." 

She  could  have  wept  for  the  relief  and  joy  of  it.  But 
his  next  words  brought  her  to  herself.  "  It's  too  late 
to  alter  it  now." 

Was  it  too  late?  Did  his  not-understanding  word, 
so  lightly,  so  foolishly  given,  commit  him  to  a  life-long 
repentance  of  his  error?  She  could  not  think  so;  but 
must  wait  until  she  knew  what  was  in  his  mind  before 
she  could  do  battle  for  him. 

His  next  words  were  quite  unexpected.  She  had 
thought  that  he  would  tell  her  how  he  had  come  to  see 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake;  but  he  put  all  that  on  one 
side,  and  said:  "I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  can't  re- 
consider your  decision  about  living  here  —  with  us." 

It  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  her.  With  the 
terms  she  had  imposed  upon  herself  in  her  dealings  with 
him,  she  could  not  directly  question  his  decision;  she 
could  only  lie  in  wait  for  an  opportunity  of  expressing 
her  own  doubts.  But  she  knew  his  nice  sense  of  honour 
too  well  to  have  much  hope  that  he  would  draw  back. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  with  pain  in  her  voice, 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  147 

**  I  would  do  much  more  than  that  for  you.  If  you 
want  me  with  you,  I  will  stay, —  if  it  is  possible." 

"  I  do  want  you,  mother ;  and  I  think  I  want  to  stay 
here,  at  Steynes.  For  one  thing,  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
ought  to  leave  it.  I  don't  amount  to  much  as  a  land- 
lord, I'm  afraid ;  but  the  people  all  know  me,  and  I  think 
I  am  of  some  use  to  them,  although  you  are  of  so  much 
more." 

"  There  is  nothing  that  you  need  reproach  yourself 
with  in  that  way,  dear  Henry.  It  is  only  the  details, 
the  business  part,  that  you  are  spared.  In  every  other 
way  you  are  just  what  you  ought  to  be  towards  your 
people.     And  of  course  they  would  miss  you." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  that,  mother.  If  it  is  so,  I 
have  been  very  fortunate  in  being  able  to  combine  my 
work  and  my  other  duties,  and  to  enjoy  them  both. 
Oh,  I  know  how  much  I  have  to  thank  you  for  making 
that  possible.  I  think  I  ought  to  go  on  living  here ; 
but  I  can  see  now  that  nothing  would  go  right,  unless 
you  were  here,  too.  Why  did  you  say  you  would  stay 
if  it  were  possible?     Why  shouldn't  it  be  possible?  " 

She  did  not  reply  immediately.  She  was  trying  to 
find  words  that  would  do  more  than  merely  answer  his 
question.  "  I  have  done  what  I  have  as  mistress  of 
Steynes,"  she  said.  "  When  you  are  married,  I  shall 
no  longer  be  mistress  of  Steynes.  And  it  wouldn't  only 
be  for  you  to  ask  me  to  go  on  living  here." 

He  answered  at  once.  "  I  have  thought  over  all  that. 
I  have  said  that  I  have  made  a  mistake.  I  wouldn't  say 
that  to  anybody  but  you,  and  I  shall  never  say  it  again, 
after  tonight.  The  mistake  I  have  made  wouldn't  only 
affect  me,  if  one  didn't  do  one's  best  to  mend  it.  What 
I  offered  to  Margaret  was  an  equal  partnership  in  my 


148         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

work.  I  think  she  has  come  to  sec  that  that  will  be 
impossible,  if  she  has  to  make  up  for  my  deficiencies,  as 
vmi  have  bo  wonderfully  done  hitherto.  I  believe  she 
is  willing  to  make  the  sacrifice,  but  I  ought  not  to  ask 
it  of  her.  She  has  as  much  right  to  the  chance  of  de- 
veloping her  powers  as  I  have.  They  are  remarkable 
powers,  and  the  world  would  be  the  poorer  without  them. 
It  will  be  all  to  her  advantage  to  have  you  with  us  here, 
mother,  and  she  is  so  clever  and  clear-sighted  that  she 
can  hardly  be  blind  to  it.  I  must  do  my  best  to  make 
her  happy,  as  she  has  trusted  her  happiness  to  me. 
And  I  know  you  will  do  your  best  to  help  me  in  that, 
as  you  have  helped  me  in  everything  else." 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  "  Yes,  dear  boy,"  she 
said.  "  We  will  make  the  best  of  it,  both  of  us  to- 
gether." 

She  could  say  nothing  of  all  that  was  in  her  mind. 
She  saw  that  his  eyes  had  been  opened,  but  she  did  not 
know  how  much.  If  he  still  retained  his  faith  in  the 
woman  who  had  taken  advantage  of  his  previous  blind- 
ness, she  must  say  nothing  to  destroy  it.  She  must 
make  the  best  of  her,  both  for  him  and  for  herself.  She 
must  take  up  the  burden  of  a  new  life,  and  by  all  means 
hide  from  him  how  heavy  it  was. 

XII 

When  Margaret  Platter  went  up  to  her  room,  she 
prepared  herself  in  her  slow  deliberate  way  for  a  com- 
fortable hour  with  a  book.  She  took  a  seat  by  the  open 
window  about  the  time  that  Angela  said  good-night. 
Her  room  was  on  the  second  floor,  immediately  above 
where  thej  woe  sitting  on  the  terrace.  The  voices  came 
up  to  her  quite  clearly  in  the  still  night,  but  she  paid 


11  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  149 

little  heed  to  them  until  after  the  silence  that  followed 
Angela's  departure.  Then  she  heard  Kimmeridge's 
speech  :  "  I  have  made  a  mistake  " ;  and  laid  down  her 
book  with  a  startled  look  in  her  eyes. 

She  heard  the  conversation  right  through;  and  long 
after  it  was  over,  and  the  servants  had  come  to  take 
in  the  chairs  and  to  shut  up  down  below,  she  sat  on,  look- 
ing out  into  the  night. 

When  at  last  she  arose  and  prepared  herself  for  bed, 
she  was  wondering  how  she  could  have  come  to  put  her- 
self into  such  a  false  position.  She  was  bitterly 
ashamed  of  herself.  She  had  doggedly  set  herself  to 
listen  to  a  confidential  conversation,  hardening  her 
heart  to  the  mortifying  things  that  would  surely  be  said 
of  her  after  such  an  opening,  and  she  had  heard  from 
first  to  last  only  what  brought  home  to  her  the  baseness 
of  her  own  attitude  towards  such  people  as  these. 

She  had  been  considering  whether  it  was  "  good 
enough  " —  for  herself.  No  thought  had  entered  her 
mind  of  whether  it  was  good  enough  for  the  man  who 
'had  offered  her  his  hand.  If  she  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  did  not  want  what  she  had  accepted 
from  him,  she  would  have  taken  her  freedom.  He  had 
been  considering  too,  and  had  found  out  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake.  But  it  had  not  apparently  occurred 
to  him  even  to  ask  her  for  his  freedom,  although  he  had 
become  aware  that  she  was  dissatisfied,  and  might  at 
least  have  hoped  that  she  would  be  ready  to  give  it  to 
him.  No;  he  was  thinking  of  what  he  owed  to  her,  on 
jaccount  of  his  too  hasty  offer. 

And  his  mother,  who  had  known  all  along  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake,  and  whose  hopes  for  him  had  been  deeply 
disappointed, —  she  had  not  said  a  word  of  all  that  she 
might  have   said  to   dissuade  him   from   fulfilling  his 


150         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

promise.  She  was  ready  to  make  the  best  of  it  for 
him,  and  help  him  to  make  the  best  of  it  for  the  woman 
whom  she  disliked,  and  despised. 

What  was  left  after  that,  of  all  the  arguments  with 
which  she  had  defended  herself  against  herself  for  carry- 
ing through  her  purpose?  Nothing  much  but  Angela's 
charge  that  she  was  proposing  to  use  this  childlike,  kind, 
generous  man  for  a  "  climb  up." 

She  came  down  late  for  breakfast  the  next  morning. 
She  had  lain  awake  until  the  sun  had  streamed  into  her 
windows,  and  then,  having  got  rid  of  all  the  rubbish  that 
had  been  filling  her  mind  for  weeks  past,  she  fell  asleep, 
and  slept  again  after  she  had  been  called. 

Her  face  had  a  look  of  serenity  that  had  been  absent 
from  it  since  she  had  first  come  to  Steynes.  Angela  saw 
a  different  woman  in  her,  and  the  difference  puzzled 
her,  and  distressed  her  too,  for  she  thought  it  could  only 
mean  that  she  now  saw  her  way  clear ;  and  yet  it  did  not 
look  quite  like  that  either.  Lady  Kimmeridge,  whose 
eyes  and  face  were  tired  after  a  sleepless  night,  also  saw 
the  difference,  but  it  did  not  distress  her.  She  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  accept  this  woman,  and  to  like  her, 
if  she  could  possibl}7  compass  that  difficult  feat ;  and 
she  saw  her  now  dimly  with  the  qualities  that  might  make 
it  possible  to  like  her  in  the  ascendant.  Kimmeridge 
saw  nothing.  He  was  rather  graver  than  usual,  but 
not  uncheerful. 

They  met  in  the  laboratory  at  their  usual  time,  and 
worked  steadily  through  the  morning.  When  the  time 
came  for  them  to  leave  off,  he  said  with  his  kind  smile: 
"  You've  been  splendid  this  morning.  What  a  lot  we 
shall  do  together  by  and  by !  " 

Her  eyes  were  just  a  little  moist  and  her  cheeks  a  lit- 
tle flushed  as  she  said :     "  Perhaps  we  shall  work  to- 


"  IN  THAT  STATE  OF  LIFE  "  151 

gether  again  by  and  by,  but  I  have  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  we  shall  both  do  our  work  better  if  we  forget 
what  we  have  said  about  being  married.  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you  for  the  honour  you  did  me  in  asking  me  to  be 
your  wife,  but  I  —  I  don't  want  to  marry." 

Even  now  he  thought  of  her  first.  The  sudden  look 
of  relief,  to  which  she  had  nerved  herself,  did  not  appear 
on  his  face.  It  was  concerned,  as  he  looked  at  her  and 
said :  "  I  am  not  very  clever  apart  from  —  this."  He 
motioned  with  his  hand  towards  the  material  of  their 
investigations.  "  Have  I  done  anything,  or  left  undone 
anything,  that  has  disturbed  you?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  You  have  shown  yourself  all  that 
you  ought  to  be.  I  mean  it  when  I  say  that  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you.  But  we  are  not  suited  to  one  another.  Let 
us  be  friends,  and  forget  that  we  ever  thought  of  being 
more." 

Still  he  was  too  scrupulous  to  take  his  release  straight 
away.  He  had  seen,  very  dimly,  because  such  thoughts 
were  foreign  to  him,  that  he  had  offered  her  great 
worldly  advantage,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  there 
ought  to  be  some  way  of  compensating  her  for  giving 
up  everything.  But  he  had  no  idea  in  what  way  she 
could  be  compensated,  and  his  mind  turned  towards  his 
invariable  refuge  from  material  difficulties.  He  smiled 
at  her  and  said :  "  Let  me  talk  to  my  mother,  first, 
before  we  decide  anything.     Perhaps  — " 

She  returned  his  smile,  and  hers  was  now  as  pleasant 
to  see  as  his  was.  "  /  will  talk  to  her,"  she  said.  "  But 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  already.  That  is  why  we 
worked  together  so  well  this  morning." 

It  was  after  luncheon  that  she  talked  to  Lady  Kim- 
meridge,  in  the  room  in  which  they  had  at  first  clashed 
swords. 


152         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  I  have  already  told  Henry,"  she  said,  "  and  I  told 
him  I  would  tell  you.      I  don't  want  to  marry  him." 

Lady  Kimmeridge  looked  utterly  bewildered.  For 
the  moment  she  was  unable  to  take  in  the  statement,  and 
all  that  it  meant  to  her,  and  to  her  son. 

"  I  think  we  have  both  made  a  mistake,"  said  Mar- 
garet. "  I  am  glad  I  have  seen  mine  before  it  was  too 
late." 

The  words  struck  a  chord  in  Lady  Kimmeridge's 
memory.  Her  expression  changed.  '*  Did  you  hear 
what  we  said  on  the  terrace  last  night?  "  she  asked. 

The  question  was  unexpected.  Margaret  looked 
down  in  confusion,  but  recovered  herself  quickly. 
"  Yes,  I  did,"  she  said  boldly.  "  I  hadn't  meant  to  say 
so,  but  if  you  know  that,  then  you  will  know  why  I  give 
him  up.  What  I  heard  brought  me  to  my  senses.  Per- 
haps I  shouldn't  have  listened  at  all,  if  I  hadn't  lost 
them  for  a  time." 

Lady  Kimmeridge  went  rapidly  over  as  much  as  she 
could  recall  of  what  had  been  said,  still  rather  shocked, 
in  spite  of  the  frank  avowal,  that  it  should  have  been 
overheard.  "  Is  it  because  he  said  that  he  wanted  me 
to  live  with  you  here?  "  she  asked. 

"  It's  because  I  ought  never  to  have  accepted  him. 
I  don't  love  him,  though  I  might,  perhaps,  if  he  loved 
me.  Certainly,  he  is  worth  a  woman's  love.  You  won't 
ask  me  to  say  more  than  that.  It  is  all  that  really  mat- 
ters, isn't  it?" 

Lady  Kimmeridge  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  her 
face  bore  a  strong  resemblance  at  that  moment  to  her 
son's.  Then  she  kissed  her  gently,  and  said:  "My 
dear,  I  think  you  must  have  come  to  love  him  a  little,  or 
you  wouldn't  give  him  up." 


THE  EUILDER 


THE  BUILDER 


HIS  father  was  a  bricklayer,  not  drunken  enough 
to  lose  the  chance  of  work,  and  not  sober 
enough  to  keep  himself  and  his  family  above 
the  border  line  of  poverty.  He  lived  in  an  old  group  of 
cottages  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  which  were  much 
admired  by  visitors  and  had  been  more  than  once  con- 
demned by  sanitary  inspectors. 

During  his  childhood,  building  in  and  about  the  an- 
cient town  had  sunk  to  a  very  low  ebb.  Years  before 
it  had  scornfully  rejected  the  railway,  which,  in  revenge, 
had  filched  its  prosperity  and  made  a  thriving  place  of 
its  once  despised  neighbour  four  miles  away.  Building 
had  gone  on  busily  in  the  new  town,  and  drawn  most  of 
those  engaged  in  the  trade  away  from  the  old.  But 
there  was  enough  to  keep  the  few  that  remained  behind 
in  employment.  His  father  was  a  good  workman,  when 
he  was  sober,  and  had  his  share  in  whatever  was  going 
on. 

The  child  loved  nothing  better  than  to  go  where 
there  was  building  being  done.  There  was  no  competi- 
tion between  him  and  his  brothers  to  escape  from  the 
duty  —  the  somewhat  heavy  duty  —  of  carrying  their 
father's  dinner  beer.  He  would  have  fought  for  the 
privilege  if  there  had  been  any  one  to  fight.  For,  hav- 
ing temporarily  assuaged  his  father's  thirst,  he  would 
be  permitted  to  see  what  was  doing. 

The  mortar  in  its  bed  of  lime,  the   stacks  of  new 

bricks,  the  tiles  and  slates  and  laths,  the  timbers  and 

155 


156         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

boarding,  the  cleverly  roped  scaffolding,  the  ladders, 
the  pipes  and  chimneys,  the  door  and  window  frames, 
the  work  of  joiners,  glaziers,  plumbers,  painters  and 
decorators,  all  had  an  irresistible  fascination  for  him. 
He  loved  all  the  materials  of  building  and  grew  to  know 
all  about  them,  as  his  brothers  knew  all  about  the  nests 
and  eggs  of  birds,  and  the  life  of  the  country  around 
them. 

The  builder's  yard,  with  its  stored  up  collection  of 
lumber,  was  a  paradise  to  him,  and  because  it  was  a 
usually  forbidden  paradise  he  loved  it  the  more  ardently. 
He  could  tell  the  quality  of  a  brick  at  a  glance;  he  could 
tell  whether  work  was  well  and  truly  done  or  whether  it 
was  scamped;  he  had  an  eye  for  points  of  construction. 
A  well-laid  course  of  brick-work,  neatly  pointed,  was  a 
thing  to  gloat  over;  he  would  climb  surreptitiously  on 
to  the  scaffolding,  away  from  that  side  of  the  house 
where  his  father  and  his  mates  were  eating  their  dinners, 
and  admire  the  pitch  of  the  roof  timbers,  passing  his 
hand  lovingly  over  the  carpenters'  work,  and  sometimes 
shaking  his  small  head  over  it.  He  came  to  know  some- 
thing of  values,  and  when  he  was  let  free  of  school,  and 
for  a  small  wage  mixed  mortar  and  carried  half  loads  of 
bricks  in  a  hod  up  ladders,  or  did  any  other  job  that 
could  be  put  on  to  a  boy  of  twelve,  he  would  have  been 
quite  capable  of  taking  a  place  in  the  builder's  office, 
for  he  was  quick  at  figures,  and  the  materials  over  which 
reckonings  were  made  were  as  familiar  to  him  as  the 
food  he  ate  —  what  there  was  of  it. 

But  the  way  to  that  success  in  his  trade  which  he 
afterwards  acquired  did  not  lie  through  the  training  of 
the  counting  house.  He  worked  with  the  materials  of 
building  themselves,  toiling  under  the  open  sky,  liking 
his  work,  and  taking  a  pride  in  every  detail  of  it,  not 


THE  BUILDER  157 

anxious  like  the  rest  of  his  fellows  to  lay  down  his  tools 
at  the  exact  moment  of  release,  or  taking  them  up 
tardily  when  the  time  came  to  do  so.  He  was  even  a 
little  suspicious  of  the  trades  union  which  he  presently 
joined,  and  which  did  not  encourage  an  over  zealousness 
in  labour.  And,  later  on,  the  trades  unions  did  not 
love  him. 

Of  all  his  qualities,  which  included  an  extraordinary 
and  perhaps  inherited  aptitude  for  manipulation,  a  cer- 
tainly not  inherited  love  of  hard  work,  a  power  of  going 
without,  and  so  saving  money,  a  quickness  of  brain,  and 
a  faculty  for  getting  a  great  deal  out  of  other  people, 
perhaps  the  one  that  most  affected  his  career  was  an 
obstinate  and  disagreeable  self-sufficiency,  which  caused 
him  to  rely  upon  himself,  and  himself  alone.  It  affected 
him  adversely  at  the  beginning,  for  he  would  certainly 
have  been  taken  into  partnership  with  his  old  master 
if  it  had  been  at  all  possible  to  get  on  with  him.  As  it 
was,  he  was  driven  into  independence  and  opposition  be- 
fore he  was  quite  ready,  and  lost  most  of  his  savings  by 
attempting  to  do  too  much  or  too  little. 

But  he  rallied  from  that  blow,  and  with  what  was 
left,  picking  up  a  little  job  here  and  a  slightly  bigger 
one  there,  he  made  his  way  slowly,  and  living  hard  and 
working  hard,  scraped  together  capital  to  embark  upon 
the  schemes  he  had  had  in  his  mind  from  the  first. 

The  town  was  growing  now.  Its  fame  as  a  pic- 
turesque place  in  the  midst  of  lovely  country,  wonder- 
fully little  spoilt,  considering  everything,  was  attracting 
residents.  There  were  new  houses  to  be  built  for  people 
who  could  not  get  old  ones,  there  were  old  houses  to  be 
adapted.  On  the  western  side  of  the  town,  between  it 
and  the  new  golf  links,  a  pleasant  suburb  grew  up,  of 
good  houses  with  large  gardens.     And  smaller  houses 


158         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

were  wanted  too,  houses  for  the  revivified  trades  people, 
active  or  retired,  cottages  for  the  work  people,  both 
those  who  ministered  to  the  wants  of  the  growing  popu- 
lation and  those  who  were  making  ready  for  its  increase. 

It  was  the  cottage  property  on  which  the  sage  builder 
had  his  eye.  There  was  nothing  like  it.  You  snapped 
up  a  piece  of  land  with  a  frontage  —  building  land  was 
rising  in  value  now,  and  was  difficult  to  get  —  and  you 
ran  up  a  row  of  brick  boxes  with  slate  lids,  as  many  as 
you  could  cram  into  the  space,  and  they  were  off  your 
hands,  with  a  good  profit  to  each,  before  you  had 
cleaned  the  round  patch  of  whitewash  off  the  window 
panes. 

It  was  not  necessary  to  employ  an  architect  to  design 
them  for  you.  You  could  do  that  very  well  for  your- 
self; and  architects,  besides  being  expensive,  were  apt  to 
have  faddy  ideas  which  ate  away  your  profits.  As 
many  cottages  as  possible  on  a  given  piece  of  ground, 
quick  but  sound  work  —  for  no  architect  could  have 
hated  jerry-building  more  than  this  man  who  loved  his 
trade  —  and  quick  and  fair  profits  —  that  was  the  way 
to  do  business.  The  slow  erection  of  the  bigger  houses, 
where  you  were  hampered  all  the  time  by  the  whims  of 
people  who  did  not  know  their  own  minds  two  weeks 
running,  could  be  left  for  the  present  to  the  older  estab- 
lished men,  who  worked  in  the  approved  old-fashioned 
style. 

A  good  architect  would  prepare  a  good  plan  and 
would  overlook  its  leisurely  carrying  out,  altering  it 
frequently  in  detail  as  the  work  progressed.  And  about 
two  months  or  more  after  the  house  had  been  timed  to 
be  finished,  the  old-fashioned  builder  would  withdraw  his 
men  and  pronounce  it  ready  for  occupation.  There 
were  good  profits  to  be  made  out  of  that  class  of  build- 


THE  BUILDER  159 

ing  when  you  had  a  large  and  regular  staff,  and  a  suf- 
ficient capital.     But  it  could  wait  for  the  present. 

So  ran  the  thoughts  of  the  small  man,  busy  with  his 
little  jobs,  and  gathering  together  his  difficult  coins, 
disregarded  in  his  insignificance,  but  intending  to  be  dis- 
regarded not  for  very  long. 

II 

He  bought  the  row  of  cottages  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up  for  a  small  sum,  when  nobody,  so  to  speak, 
was  looking,  evicted  the  tenants,  his  father,  who  now 
worked  for  him  among  them,  pulled  down  the  irregu- 
lar picturesque  insanitary  dwellings,  and  built  fifteen 
hideously  plain  and  regular  ones  in  their  place. 

If  that  sort  of  thing  went  on,  said  the  indignant  resi- 
dents, when  they  woke  up  to  what  was  happening,  the 
place  would  very  soon  be  ruined.  But  he  did  not  care 
in  the  least  for  that  sort  of  protest.  He  hardly  heard 
it,  for  he  only  emerged  from  the  dimly  seen  under- 
world of  labour  with  that  transaction,  and  what  the 
superior  residents  thought  or  said  filtered  through  to 
him  only  as  a  faint  and  unconsidered  echo.  Besides,  he 
had  made  three  hundred  pounds  clear  profit. 

Late  on  the  night  after  he  had  disposed  of  his  last 
cottage,  the  whole  transaction  now  being  closed  and  the 
good  money  lodged  in  the  bank,  he  walked  the  streets  of 
the  town  in  a  sort  of  grim  ecstasy,  too  restless  to  go 
home  to  his  bed,  and  unwilling  that  any  one  should  see 
him  stripped,  however  so  little,  of  his  plating  of  hard 
reserve. 

The  streets  were  empty  and  his  boots  rang  on  the 
worn  stones  and  made  echoes  among  the  old  buildings. 
The  yellow  lights  of  the  street  lamps  showed  glimpses 


160  THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

of  moulded  brickwork,  solid  timber,  broad  eaves,  small- 
paned  windows:  and  a  new  moon  peeping  out  fitfully 
from  behind  BClldding  clouds  shone  on  the  high  mellow- 
tiled  gabled   roofs  and   twisted  chimney   stacks.      What- 

ever  <>f  change  had  crept  in  amongst  all  this  ancient  con- 
tented placidity  wa>  .softened  by  the  dim  light  into 
agreement  with  the  rest.  Take  away  the  new  shop- 
fronts  in  the  Market  Square,  and  the  pretentious  modern 
Bank,  which  had  usurped  the  place  of  an  Elizabethan 
timbered  house,  and  an  inhabitant  of  a  hundred  years 
back  would  have  found  nothing  strange  or  unfamiliar  if 
he  had  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  church  and  looked 
about  him.  The  visitors  and  the  superior  residents  were 
right.  This  was  a  town  that  by  good  fortune  was  singu- 
larly little  spoilt;  a  grateful  survival  of  a  less  hurried, 
more  beautiful  age.  And  here  was  the  man,  prowling 
its  streets  at  midnight,  ambitious,  determined,  ami  alas! 
unconsidered,  who  was  going  to  change  all  that. 

lie  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  church  and,  in  the 
winter  silence  of  midnight,  considered  it.  Some  emana- 
tion from  the  spirit  of  the  place  wrought  upon  him, 
quieted,  for  a  time,  his  eagerness,  and  on  his  unim- 
pressionable mind  stamped  faintly  an  unfamiliar  im- 
pression. Beauty  of  form,  of  atmosphere,  he  was 
blind  to.  But  he  had  an  ingrained  appreciation  of  the 
materials  of  his  trade,  their  substance,  texture,  use  and 
circumstance.  He  had  known  that  the  work  of  these 
old  builders  was  good  work,  but  now  something  from 
outside  seemed  to  tell  him  that  it  was  better  than  he  had 
known.  It  was  as  if,  having  got  him  alone,  they  were 
crowding  round  him  and  imploring  him  to  save  what 
their  hands  had  made. 

The  influences  about  him  had  this  effect  that  he 
thought  for  a  time,  standing  motionless  b}'  a  great  but- 


THE  BUILDER  161 

tress  that  jutted  on  to  the  pavement,  of  the  work  that 
had  been  put  into  those  old  buildings.  He  would  have 
liked  to  build  like  that,  himself,  sometimes  —  with 
somebodv  else's  money  —  to  put  in  the  best  materials 
and  the  best  craftsmanship,  both  where  they  would  show 
and  where  they  would  be  hidden.  It  was  a  pity  that 
modern  improvement  made  it  necessary  to  destroy  such 
sound  work,  and  modern  conditions  made  it  impossible 
to  put  work  as  sound  in  its  place. 

He  got  no  further  than  that.  He  was  firmly  con- 
vinced that  the  building  of  houses  had  made  enormous 
strides  for  the  better  since  the  days  in  which  these  old 
houses  had  been  put  up.  It  had  learnt  economy  of 
space  for  one  thing;  it  had  adapted  itself  to  new  condi- 
tions of  life,  so  that  servants  were  no  longer  penned  into 
underground  cellars ;  it  had  learnt  sanitation,  and  heat- 
ing, and  all  sorts  of  other  things. 

And  the  range  of  material  to  hand  was  double  as  wide. 
The  best  machine-made  bricks  were  as  durable  as  hand- 
made ones,  and  their  larger  size  made  them  cheaper  in 
the  laying;  slates  kept  out  the  weather  better  than  tiles, 
and  looked  neater;  walls  well  plastered  and  prettily 
papered  were  preferable  to  the  old  extravagant  wain- 
scoting; steel  girders  could  be  used  instead  of  oak 
beams ;  you  could  make  cement  look  like  stone  by  scoring 
lines  on  it. 

In  his  rare  mood  of  receptivity  he  weighed  a  little  the 
criticism  that  had  been  passed  and  come  through  to 
him,  and  dangerously  saw  beyond  it.  What  was  all  this 
talk  about  things  being  old?  These  buildings  were  not 
good  because  they  were  old.  They  had  been  just  as 
good  when  they  were  new.  Their  builders,  with  the 
means  at  their  command,  had  satisfied  the  needs  of  their 
age,  and  he,  with  wider  means,  was  going  to  satisfy  the 


162         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

needs  of  his.  Other  conditions  had  stepped  in.  Land 
and  labour  were  dearer,  time  was  less,  population  much 
greater.  And  the  changed  conditions  were  as  much  a 
part  of  his  business  as  the  construction  of  walls  and 
roofs  and  floors.  You  built  to  meet  the  current  de- 
mands of  life.  The  activity  of  the  speculative  builder, 
anticipating  a  demand  and  providing  for  it,  was  a  more 
living  and  useful  activity  than  that  of  the  cultured 
architect  who  administered  to  the  exotic  claims  of  the 
few. 

In  his  own  way  he  thought  out  these  things,  and  his 
slight  uneasiness  vanished.  It  was  as  if  the  spirits  of 
the  old  builders,  pleading  with  him,  had  departed  in 
despair  of  teaching  him  those  other  lessons  of  beauty 
allied  to  fitness,  and  springing  out  of  it,  which  they  had 
also  learnt  in  their  vanished  time. 

He  walked  home  through  the  silent  streets,  hugging 
once  more  his  dreams  of  the  future,  and  never  knew  as 
he  went  straight  to  his  poor  habitation  that  he  had 
taken  a  wrong  turning,  having  gone  nearer  than  he  ever 
afterwards  came  to  taking  the  right  one. 

Ill 

The  development  of  that  small  building  speculation 
followed  with  almost  startling  rapidity.  He  was  for- 
tunate in  the  early  stages,  made  money  and  spent  none, 
got  money,  as  the  phrase  goes,  behind  him,  and  long  be- 
fore he  had  hoped  for  it  bought  out  his  old  master  and 
was  running  up  two  streets  of  houses  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  on  land  which  had  been  previously  occupied 
by  a  fine  old  house  with  four  or  five  acres  of  garden  and 
orchard. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  outcry  from  the  superior 
residents,  echoed  from  outside,  began  directly  to  reach 


THE  BUILDER  163 

him.  But  it  troubled  him  little.  Let  them  cry  out! 
His  orderly  rows  of  neat  brick  villas  were  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  town  to  their  houses  and  the  golf  links, 
and  would  do  them  no  harm.  Besides  they  were  there 
now  and  nobody  could  shift  them. 

And,  after  all,  nobody  had  been  willing  to  pay  the 
price  to  keep  the  old  house.  If  it  had  been  worth  more 
to  them  to  keep  than  to  him  to  destroy  why  hadn't  they 
put  down  their  money.  He  had  offered  at  one  time, 
when  the  little  storm  had  looked  likely  to  become  a  big 
one,  to  let  the  property  go  at  only  a  small  profit  on  what 
he  had  paid  for  it.  But  the  objectors  had  not  put 
down  their  money,  and  the  old  wistaria-covered  white 
house  with  its  beautiful  gardens  was  put  down  instead, 
and  the  red  brick  villas,  of  which  all  the  plans  had  been 
prepared  in  his  office,  were  put  up. 

At  about  the  time  he  was  starting  on  this  big  and 
lucrative  undertaking  he  found  time  to  attend  to  the 
affairs  of  his  soul,  and  joined  the  Methodists.  He  was 
a  regular  member  of  the  congregation,  paid  his  share 
with  the  rest,  for  whatever  was  wanted,  and  when  the 
long-cherished  scheme  of  replacing  the  old  meeting-house 
with  a  new  and  elaborate  "  church  "  was  at  last  put  into 
execution,  largely  through  his  encouragement,  he  got 
the  contract,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

His  share  towards  the  expense  was  the  saving  of 
architects'  fees.  He  must  be  paid  for  his  work  as  a 
builder,  of  course;  the  labourer  was  worthy  of  his  hire. 
But  he  would  prepare  the  plans,  and  see  to  their  carry- 
ing out  for  nothing. 

His  offer  was  considered  a  most  generous  one.  They 
could  hardly  hope  to  vie  with  the  splendours  of  the 
great  abbey  church,  but  they  would  have  by  far  the 
largest  non-conformist  place  of  worship  in  the  town, 


164  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

and  if  a  little  extra  money  could  be  got  together  to  add 
a  Gothic  spire,  of  which  '  our  brother,*  without  any  addi- 
tional charge,  had  already  prepared  a  most  tasteful 
D,  they  flattered  themselves  that  the  new  church, 
with  the  advantage  of  a  fine  site,  would  be  almost  as 
conspicuous  an  object  as  the  old. 

It  was,  in  truth,  almost  more  conspicuous,  when  it 
came  to  be  built,  and  the  mean  and  ridiculous  spire  was 
added  in  due  time.  For  the  old  church  had  a  low  square 
tower,  and  the  spire  over-topped  it  by  at  least  ten  feet. 
And  the  old,  low,  mellow  red-brick  chapel,  with  its 
payed  garden-square  and  the  minister's  house  adjoining 
it,  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Most  of  the  old  shops  in  the  Market  Square  were  by 
this  time  also  things  of  the  past.  Some  had  been  pulled 
down  and  rebuilt  entirely,  some  had  been  refaced  and 
carried  a  story  higher ;  plate  glass  windows  were  every- 
where, only  two  or  three  of  the  smaller  bow-windowed 
small-paned  fronts  having  been  left. 

The  outcry  had  gathered  voice  now,  but  it  was  still 
surprisingly  incompetent  to  arouse  action.  The 
builder  who  had  struck  the  first  serious  blow  was  re- 
sponsible for  a  good  deal  of  the  change,  and  he  was  one 
of  the  most  thriving  men  in  the  place.  He  was  also, 
by  this  time,  thoroughly  aware  of  the  opposition  he  had 
aroused,  but  was  moved  by  it  no  more  than  before. 
"  Spoiling  the  town !  "  he  would  exclaim.  "  I'm  making 
the  town.  Is  it  more  prosperous  than  it  was,  or  isn't 
it?" 

Unfortunately,  there  was  no  denying  that  it  was 
vastly  more  prosperous.  For  one  thing,  the  new  main 
line  had  come,  and  it  was  now  within  an  hour's  direct 
journey  of  London.  It  had  got  the  name  of  a  first-class 
residential  place,  and  nothing  that  was  done  seemed  to 


THE  BUILDER  165 

affect  the  influx  of  new  people.  The  pleasant  suburb 
between  the  town  and  the  golf  links  spread  further  and 
further.  "  I'm  not  fool  enough  to  buy  land  and  put  up 
cottages  there"  the  builder  would  say.  "  It  would  de- 
preciate the  property.  Why  can't  they  be  content 
with  what  they  have  got?  " 

They  had  to  be  content,  with  that  and  the  great 
church  and  the  Market  Square,  and  the  famous  town 
hall,  and  the  old  shops  and  houses  that  still  remained; 
for  much  of  the  rest  had  gone,  and  all  round  the  old 
town,  except  on  their  side,  was  a  waste  of  new  streets, 
and  almost  a  new  town  altogether.  They  had  not  put 
their  hands  in  their  pockets  at  the  time  when  they  might 
have  saved  it,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  their  pockets 
would  have  been  deep  enough  in  any  case,  for  what  can 
stand  against  the  irresistible  pressure  of  modern  life, 
and  who  really  cares  enough  for  the  past  to  save  more 
than  a  fragment  of  it  here  and  there? 

IV 

It  was  Paradine,  the  famous  architect,  who  brought 
some  of  his  sins  home  to  him,  but  even  he  did  not  succeed 
in  making  hhn  repentant.  Nobody  could  have  done 
that. 

He  was  a  rich  man  now,  a  good  deal  richer  than  many 
of  those  who  occupied  the  best  houses  in  the  new  suburb, 
now  quite  a  respectably  old  suburb ;  and  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  would  build  himself  a  house  there. 

He  bought  half  an  acre  of  land  at  a  price  bigger  than 
he  had  yet  paid  for  any  land.  It  was  part  of  three 
acres  that  had  gone  to  the  garden  of  one  of  the  first  of 
the  new  good  houses,  and  its  owner  addressed  him  thus 
before  they  came  to  terms : 

"  The  land  is  no  good  to  me,  and  it  is  quite  planted 


166         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

out  by  this  time.  I  shall  be  glad  to  sell  it  for  building 
at  the  price  I  ask,  and  I  have  no  objection  to  you  as  a 
neighbour.  But  I  do  make  this  proviso,  that  the  house 
you  build  shall  be  designed  by  a  good  architect.  We 
rather  pride  ourselves  on  doing  things  well  here,  and  it 
would  be  unneighbourly  of  me  to  allow  a  house  to  be  put 
up  that  would  spoil  the  look  of  the  place." 

The  builder  frowned.  "  There's  been  a  lot  of  talk 
about  spoiling  the  place,"  he  said.  "  All  the  spoiling 
that  I  can  see  is  that  I  am  obliged  to  pay  as  much  for 
half  an  acre,  now,  as  you  paid,  sir,  for  three." 

"  Our  views  on  that  matter  are  not  likely  to  agree," 
said  the  seller.  "  If  you  can't  accept  my  terms  I  won't 
part  with  the  land." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  have  a  house  that  suits  me,"  said 
the  builder,  "  and  I'm  not  going  to  spare  expense  in 
building  it.  It  will  be  a  good  house.  I've  got  a  plan 
sketched  out,  and  I  don't  think  anybody  could  find  any- 
thing to  object  to  in  it.  It's  gothic  —  oh,  a  fine  place 
it  will  be.  I've  no  objection  to  showing  you  the  eleva- 
tion." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  won't  do.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  architecture,  but  I  have  promised  my  friends  I 
will  stipulate  for  a  first-class  architect." 

"  Isn't  it  rather  hard  to  prevent  a  man  building  the 
sort  of  house  he  wants  for  himself?  " 

"  You  may  build  it,  and  welcome,  but  unless  you  get  a 
good  architect  to  design  it  for  you  you  won't  build  it 
here."  They  were  standing  in  the  paddock  with  its 
hundred  yards  of  frontage,  masked  by  limes  and  poplars 
from  the  houses  on  either  side. 

"  This  isn't  the  only  piece  of  land  I  could  buy,  Col- 
onel, if  I  liked  to  pay  the  price." 


THE  BUILDER  167 

"  No ;  and  I'm  not  asking  you  to  buy  it.  It's  as  you 
please.     I  have  named  my  terms." 

"  And  I've  agreed  to  them." 

"  Not  to  the  most  important." 

The  builder  looked  round  him.  He  had  set  his  heart 
on  this  site. 

"Would  Paradine  do?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 
"  There's  a  lot  of  talk  about  Mr.  Paradine.  I  daresay 
it  would  pay  me  to  give  him  a  job ;  he  might  return  the 
compliment." 

"  Paradine  would  do  very  well." 

"  Well,  I'll  think  about  it  and  let  you  know  tomorrow. 
I  dare  say  me  and  Mr.  Paradine  could  work  together. 
I'll  show  him  my  plans,  if  I  decide  to  employ  him,  and 
I  dare  say  he  can  improve  upon  them  in  a  way  that  will 
please  you  and  please  me." 

"  If  Mr.  Paradine  likes  to  work  in  that  way  I  shall 
be  satisfied.  Very  well,  then,  we'll  leave  it  at  that  fojr 
the  present." 

So  the  big  man  came  down,  and  the  builder  drove  him 
from  the  station  to  inspect  the  site.  He  was  a  thin 
nervous  man,  with  delicate  hands  and  a  stoop  of  the 
shoulders,  and  spoke  in  a  soft,  rather  querulous  voice. 
"  I  have  not  been  here  since  I  was  a  boy,"  he  said.  "  My 
uncle  was  the  Rector,  and  I  used  to  stay  with  him." 

"  Well,  you  will  see  very  great  improvements,  sir," 
said  the  builder;  "  and  I  may  say,  without  blowing  my 
own  trumpet,  that  I  have  been  more  responsible  for  them 
than  any  one  else." 

A  shudder  passed  through  the  architect's  frame  as 
they  drove  along  one  side  of  the  Market  Square,  but  he 
said  nothing,  and  the  builder  expatiated  on  the  changes 
he  had  brought  about,  drawing  particular  attention  to 


168         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

the  Methodist  chapel,  which  he  claimed  as  his  "  magnus 
opus." 

"  You  built  that !  "  exclaimed  the  architect,  fixing  a 
horrified  gaze  on  the  pitiable  cockney  spire,  which  like  a 
short-lived  weed  seemed  to  have  exhausted  all  its 
strength  in  overtopping  the  massive  solidity  of  the 
neighbouring  tower. 

"  Designed  and  built  it,"  said  the  builder  proudly,  for 
he  had  lost  all  diffidence  in  face  of  his  companion's  mild 
nervous  manner.  "  We  builders  know  a  tiling  or  two. 
Now  I've  got  some  drawings  in  my  office  " —  he  had  not 
intended  to  mention  this  — "  which  I  thought  of  carry- 
ing out  in  the  new  house ;  something  in  the  same  style  as 
the  church,  with  a  bit  of  a  spire  too,  and  some  traceried 
windows, —  I  don't  grudge  the  expense ;  I  want  to  have 
everything  good.  I  thought  between  us  we  might  work 
up  something  tasty  out  of  them.  When  you  have  seen 
the  site,  we  — " 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  architect,  extending  a  lean 
hand  toward  the  driver,  and  turning  on  the  builder  a 
pained,  enquiring  face.  "  Do  I  understand  you  that  you 
have  already  prepared  plans  for  your  new  house?  " 

"  Well,  only  provisional,  you  understand.  If  you 
think  well  of  my  ideas,  as  I'm  sure  you  will,  what  I 
thought  was  that  between  us  — '* 

But  Mr.  Paradine  interrupted  him.  "  I  think  there 
has  been  some  mistake,"  he  said.  "  I  will  get  back  to 
the  station.  I  would  not  have  left  London  if  I  had 
known.  My  time  is  valuable."  And  he  put  out  his 
hand  again,  to  stop  the  driver. 

"  Oh,  wait  a  minute,  sir,"  said  the  builder,  aghast. 
"  I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean  —  just  a  suggestion,  you  know. 
If  you  would  just  cast  your  eye  over  the  drawings." 

"  I    won't    look    at    your   pestilent    drawings,"    said 


THE  BUILDER  169 

the  architect  violently,  changed  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  from  a  meek  person  who  could  be  instructed,  almost 
patronized,  into  a  man  of  purple  wrath  and  unbridled 
expression. 

"  Eh !  What !  "  exclaimed  the  builder  helplessly,  his 
eyes  staring. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  asking  me  to  come  down 
here  and  talking  to  me  of  your  filthy  scribblings?  Do 
you  know  who  I  am,  by  any  chance?  " 

"  Oh,  come,  sir,"  said  the  builder,  apologetically ; 
"  nobody  knows  better  than  me  what  a  reputation  you've 
got.  I'm  sure  it  never  so  much  as  entered  my  head 
to—" 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  build  you  a  house  ?  "  snapped  the 
architect. 

"  Yes,  sir,  of  course.  I  want  the  best  house  I  can 
get  for  the  money,  and  there's  nobody  who  will  make  out 
a  better  plan  than  you.  I  know  that  well  enough. 
That's  why  I  took  the  liberty  of  asking  you  — " 

"  It  was  a  liberty,  a  great  liberty.  I  don't  know  why 
I  came  here.  But  now  I  am  here,  I  will  build  you  a 
house.  You  will  tell  me  the  number  of  rooms  you  want, 
and  t}.e  rr  jney  you  are  prepared  to  spend.  Any  de- 
tails as  to  the  arrangement  of  the  house  for  the  way  you 
wish  to  live  in  it  I  will  listen  to.  But  you  won't  have  a 
word  to  say  as  to  the  style  of  architecture,  or  the  deco- 
ration, or  anything  else,  and  you  will  carry  out  the  plan 
with  the  very  best  materials,  under  my  directions.  Do 
you  understand  that?  " 

"  I  am  to  take  it  or  leave  it." 

"  You  are  to  take  it  in  its  entirety,  or  you  are,  as  you 
say,  to  leave  it.  I  don't  care  which  you  do.  And  if 
you  ever  speak  to  me  again  about  the  vile  exhibitions  of 
vulgarity  and  ignorance  with  which  you  have  brought 


170         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

ruin  on  this  beautiful  old  town,  I'll  —  I'll  —  well,  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do ;  but,  upon  my  word,  when  I  think 
of  what  this  place  used  to  be  and  what  it  is  now,  I  feel 
inclined  to  go  and  cut  my  throat.  What  is  the  good  of 
me  and  men  like  me  learning  and  thinking  and  working 
all  our  lives,  and  trying  to  make  headway  against  the 
gross  wicked  blindness  of  the  time,  when  people  like  you 
can  destroy  in  a  month  more  than  we  can  do  in  a  life- 
time?    It  makes  me  despair." 

He  ended  on  a  note  of  gentle  melancholy,  and  the 
builder  plucked  up  courage,  surprised  and  a  little 
alarmed  as  he  was  at  the  outburst,  to  say,  "  Oh,  well, 
sir,  there's  two  sides  to  that  question :  but  I'm  sure  I 
shall  be  flattered  to  live  in  a  house  of  your  designing, 
and  so  will  the  wife;  and  as  for  the  work  put  into  it, 
you'll  have  no  reason  to  complain  about  that." 

The  architect  sank  back  against  the  cushions  of  the 
fly,  his  explosion  over,  and  hardly  spoke  again  until  the 
builder  left  him  at  the  station  an  hour  or  so  later. 

"  He's  a  rum  'un,  and  no  mistake,"  said  the  man  of 
bricks  and  mortar  to  his  wife,  to  whom  he  had  given  an 
account  of  the  episode.  "  I  don't  know  why  I  gave  way 
to  him,  I'm  sure.  But  there's  no  doubt  he's  a  first-class 
man.  A  house  by  him  will  keep  their  tongues  from  wag- 
ging. He  gave  me  something,  he  did.  Vulgarity  and 
ignorance,  eh?  Well,  he  knows  his  job  and  I  know 
mine,  and  we've  both  done  pretty  well  out  of  them." 


"  Well,  there's  your  house,"  said  Paradine,  the  great 
architect,  a  year  or  so  later.  "  You  won't  know  how 
to  live  in  it,  but  that's  not  my  affair.  It  is  one  of  the 
best  of  its  size  I  have  ever  built." 


THE  BUILDER  171 

"It's  a  beautiful  'ouse,  sir,  a  beautiful  'ouse,"  said 
the  builder  enthusiastically. 

They  were  standing  in  the  paved  courtyard  in  front 
of  it.  The  work  was  finished,  and  all  the  untidy  traces 
of  the  workmen's  labours  had  been  removed.  The 
house,  of  warm  red  brick,  with  tiled  broad-eaved  roofs, 
fluted  chimney  stacks,  well-proportioned  windows,  boldly 
decorated  doorway,  was  ready  to  receive  its  occupants, 
and  help  them  to  whatever  domestic  pleasures  they  de- 
sired in  life.  It  really  was  a  beautiful  house,  beautiful 
in  its  fine  simplicity,  as  well  as  in  its  sparse  decoration, 
and  beautiful  in  the  way  it  enshrined  the  idea  of  a  home : 
and  the  builder,  who  had  contributed  to  it  the  best  of 
material  and  workmanship,  and  had  learnt  something 
during  its  erection,  was  sincere  in  his  admiration. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  should  like  to  know  what  sort  of  a 
beastly  dog-kennel  you  would  have  put  up  here  if  you 
had  had  your  own  way,"  said  the  architect,  turning  a 
whimsical  eye  on  him.  He  had  had  his  way  in  every 
detail ;  he  had  kept  the  man  whose  money  he  had  been 
spending  under  a  firmly  placed  thumb,  and  he  had  come 
to  like  him. 

The  builder  grinned  and  scratched  his  head.  "  It 
has  cost  just  double  the  money  I  meant  to  spend,"  he 
said. 

"Well,  it's  worth  it,  eh?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  it's  worth  it.  I  wouldn't  have  it  altered. 
I've  taken  a  pride  in  it." 

"  And  that  is  what  you  have  never  done  before,  my 
friend,  in  any  of  the  abominations  of  desolation  you  are 
responsible  for." 

"  Oh,  come,  sir,  that  isn't  fair.  I've  always  been 
proud  of  putting  in  good  materials  and  good  work." 

"  To  do  you  justice  I  believe  you  have.     And  I  don't 


172  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

know  that  it  doesn't  make  your  offence  worse.  You  are 
like  a  dressmaker  who  would  cut  up  silks  and  laces  and 
sew  them  together  well,  and  yet  not  care  in  the  least 
what  the  dress  she  made  of  them  looked  like,  or  whether 
it  fitted  or  not." 

"  Ah,  hut  it  does  fit.  What  I've  done,  and  what 
you're  so  down  on,  does  fit.  It  supplies  a  want.  When 
the  want  really  changes  I'll  be  ready  to  meet  it.  You 
don't  think  I  wouldn't  rather  build  a  house  like  this 
than  the  sort  of  house  I'm  accustomed  to  build,  do  you? 
This  is  my  home,  and  I'm  ready  to  spend  my  money  on 
it  and  have  it  good.  Others  haven't  got  so  much  money, 
and  they  must  do  with  something  cheaper." 

The  architect  sighed  and  turned  away.  "  I'm  afraid 
it  is  so,"  he  said.  "  And  cheapness  means  ugliness, 
nowadays.  It  needn't,  you  know.  It  used  not  to. 
Come  now,  haven't  you  learnt  that  lesson  while  we  have 
been  working  together?  " 

The  builder  hesitated  again.  "  Well,  I  can  see  in  a 
sort  of  way,"  he  said,  "  that  our  ornament's  all  wrong." 

"  Oh,  ornament !  "  exclaimed  the  other,  with  a  shrug. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  the  builder  hastened  to  say.  "  Much 
better  do  without  it  altogether.  And  I'm  going  to,  for 
the  future."  He  grinned.  "  It'll  come  cheaper,  any 
way.  But  I  suppose  you  can  see  this,  sir, —  if  I  had 
spent  what  it  has  cost  to  make  this  house  what  it  is,  over 
and  above  what  I  require,  on  the  other  houses  I've  built 
here,  it's  quite  certain  that  it  would  never  have  been 
built  at  all.     I  shouldn't  have  made  my  money." 

The  architect  turned  again  towards  the  nvw  walls. 
"  It  has  cost,"  he  said,  "  the  beauty  of  a  whole  town  to 
build  this  one  house." 


THE  LITTLE  SQUIRE 


THE  LITTLE  SQUIRE 


THERE  were  the  Squire  and  the  little  Squire, 
and  they  were  grandfather  and  grandson. 
The  Squire  owned  the  fine  estate  of  Kencote, 
in  the  County  of  Meadshire,  which  had  been  in  the  Clin- 
ton family  for  some  centuries,  and  the  little  Squire  would 
own  it  after  him. 

The  Squire,  Colonel  Thomas  Clinton,  was  "  the  fine 
old  English  gentleman  "  of  the  sporting  magazines, 
whose  carefully-kept  diaries  of  over  fifty  years'  pursuit 
of  fur  and  feather,  at  Kencote  and  elsewhere,  were  pub- 
lished a  few  years  ago  in  two  large  volumes  and  are  now 
out  of  print.  His  father  had  been  a  younger  son  and 
had  been  apprenticed  to  a  trade  in  the  city  of  London,  as 
younger  sons  of  good  families  were  in  those  days.  But 
late  in  life  he  had  succeeded  his  brother,  "  Beau " 
Clinton,  the  friend  of  the  Regent,  and  "  Merchant  Jack," 
as  he  was  always  called  in  the  country,  had  devoted  the 
fortune  he  had  acquired  in  his  business  to  putting  the 
estate,  which  had  been  lessened  by  the  extravagant  tastes 
of  his  brother,  into  apple-pie  order,  and  improving  the 
house  and  grounds,  not  entirely  to  their  advantage. 

"  Merchant  Jack  "  had  lived  in  Cheapside  before  suc- 
ceeding to  the  family  estate,  and  had  brought  up  his 
children  there.  He  had  sent  his  sons  to  Merchant  Tai- 
lor's School,  bought  his  eldest  a  pair  of  colours  in  a  line 
regiment,  and  sent  his  second  to  St.  John's  College  at 
Oxford,  with  an  eye  to  the  Church  and  the  family  living. 

Colonel  Thomas  had  sent  his  only  son  to  Eton  and  to 

175 


176         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

Trinity  College.  He  was  delicate,  but  held  a  commis- 
sion for  a  year  or  two  in  the  Grenadier  Guards,  married 
the  sister  cf  a  fellow-officer,  the  Marquis  of  Nottingham, 
and  died  before  he  was  twenty-five.  His  widow  married 
the  rector  of  an  adjoining  parish  not  very  long  after- 
wards, and  there  was  a  great  to-do  about  it;  but  that 
episode  does  not  concern  us.  She  died,  too,  not  very 
long  after,  and  the  little  Squire  was  brought  up  entirely 
by  his  grandfather  and  his  six  maiden  aunts. 

He  was  a  rare  handful  for  his  aunts  to  tackle,  for  if 
they  overbore  him  by  sheer  weight  of  numbers  when  they 
had  him  in  the  house  to  themselves,  he  could  always  turn 
the  tables  on  them  when  his  grandfather  was  there. 
The  Squire  never  treated  them  as  grown  women  to  his 
dying  day;  when  the  eldest  of  them  was  over  fifty  and 
the  voungest  forty,  he  sent  them  fetching  and  carry- 
ing all  over  the  house,  and  would  not  allow  them  to  sit 
up  a  minute  later  than  ten  o'clock. 

So  one  of  the  first  lessons  the  little  Squire  learnt  was 
that  people  in  petticoats,  however  much  they  might 
worry  you  when  they  got  you  to  themselves,  at  one  time 
by  over-elaborate  embraces,  at  another  by  shrill  scold- 
ings and  threats  which  never  materialized,  were  in  the 
long  run  people  of  no  account  whatever. 

He  learnt  it  both  by  precept  and  example.  His  own 
petticoats,  in  an  age  when  baby  boys  wore  them  for 
longer  than  they  do  now,  were  stripped  from  him  by  his 
grandfather's  orders  at  the  earliest  possible  date. 
"Breech  him!  Do  you  hear  what  I  say?"  said  the 
Squire  to  his  eldest  daughter,  adding  a  full-blooded 
witticism  which  sent  her  from  the  room  red  to  the  tips 
of  her  ears;  and  the  child  was  accordingly  breeched  be- 
fore his  second  birthday. 

On  his  third  birthday  his  grandfather  gave  him  a 


THE  LITTLE  SQUIRE  177 

spaniel  pup  of  his  own  famous  breed,  and  departed  the 
same  morning  for  Lincolnshire,  where  he  had  bought  a 
great  stretch  of  fen-land  for  the  purpose  of  wild-fowling. 
When  he  returned  three  days  later  it  was  to  be  appealed 
to  by  both  sides  as  to  whether  the  small  dog  was  to  be 
allowed  to  sleep  on,  and  even  in,  the  small  child's  bed. 
"  Why  not?  "  asked  the  Squire,  and  amplified  his  ques- 
tion on  such  outrageous  lines  that  his  daughters  retired 
trembling,  to  ask  one  another  whether  the  situation 
could  be  borne  any  longer ;  while  the  little  Squire  openly 
exulted  over  them  and  refused  to  go  to  bed  that  night 
until  it  suited  him. 

A  few  years  later  he  was  sitting  with  his  grandfather 
after  dinner,  drinking  his  half  glass  of  port,  his  six 
aunts  having  filed  from  the  room,  and  shaken  their  curls 
at  the  idea,  but  not  until  they  were  on  the  other  side  of 
the  door. 

As  he  grew  older  he  became  more  and  more  the  com- 
panion of  his  grandfather.  He  was  given  a  pony,  and 
taken  to  meets  of  the  hounds  directly  his  legs  were  long 
enough  to  grip  a  saddle.  He  hunted  regularly  from  his 
seventh  birthday.  A  little  gun  was  made  specially  for 
him,  and  he  had  his  powder-flask  and  everything  com- 
plete at  the  age  when  most  little  boys  had  to  be  content 
with  a  popgun.  In  fact,  he  was  the  complete  little 
sportsman,  but  at  eight  years  of  age  he  read  with  diffi- 
culty, wrote  like  a  baby,  and  had  a  mere  nodding  ac- 
quaintance with  the  multiplication  table. 

II 

The  Reverend  Giles  Clinton,  Rector  of  Kencote,  was 
a  huge  full-bodied  man,  who  loved  a  horse  and  hated  a 
priest.     His  weight  alone  prevented  his   rivalling  the 


178  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

feats  of  his  elder  brother  in  the  hunting-field,  and  he 
knew  the  points  of  a  hound  better  than  any  other  man  in 
the  county.  He  had  an  explosive  temper,  but  beneath 
it  a  fund  of  cool  commonsense,  upon  which  those  who 
knew  him  placed  great  reliance.  He  was  also  a  very 
fair  scholar. 

To  him  his  niece,  Miss  Laura  Clinton,  tearfully  ap- 
pealed when  the  little  Squire,  from  being  unwilling  to  do 
many  lessons,  came  to  the  point  when  he  refused  to  do 
any  at  all.  Miss  Laura  had  a  taste  for  letters,  and  had 
even  contributed  a  poem  to  Messrs.  Dow  and  Runagate's 
Keepsake  Annual.  It  was  entitled  "  Lines  Written  in  a 
Country  Churchyard,"  and  began: 

"  Whene'er  I  cast  my  eyes  around 
Upon   Uiis  plot  of  sacred   ground," 

and  proceeded  to  develop  the  idea  that  sooner  or  later 
the  proudest  as  well  as  the  lowliest  must  die  and  in  due 
course  be  buried.  She  had  undertaken  the  little  Squire's 
early  education  with  some  enthusiasm,  hoping  to  endue 
him  with  some  of  her  own  taste  for  polite  letters.  But 
the  attempt  had  been  a  dismal  failure.  She  loved  the 
young  scapegrace  far  too  much  to  exercise  wholesome 
discipline  over  him,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  she  pos- 
1  the  mental  or  bodily  strength  to  subdue  him.  even 
if  she  had  not  been  so  handicapped.  If  she  hardened 
her  heart  and  drew  her  father's  attention  to  her  charge's 
truancy  and  disobedience,  the  Squire  would  fix  her  with  a 
milil  eye  and  quote  a  couplet  from  k'  Lines  Written  in  a 
Country  Churchyard,"  and  say  that  for  his  part  he 
would  rather  that  the  boy  rode  straight  and  shot 
straight  than  be  brought  up  to  write  such  stuff  as  that : 
and  Aunt  Laura  would  retire  hurt. 

So  the  Rector  took  the  matter  in  hand,  and  after  his 


THE  LITTLE  SQUIRE  179 

niece's  woeful  tale  marched  straight  up  to  the  big  house 
and  into  his  brother's  study,  where  the  Squire  was  tying 
a  fly. 

"  Thomas,"  he  said,  "  young  Edward's  ignorance  is  a 
disgrace  to  you  and  to  all  of  us.  Something  must  be 
done  about  it." 

The  Squire  looked  at  him,  bland  innocence  on  his 
features,  and  said  sweetly,  "  I  was  thinking  of  sending 
him  down  to  you  every  morning  to  learn  his  grammar ; 
his  aunt  can't  hold  him.  But  I  expect  you  have  for- 
gotten all  you  ever  knew,  and  are  too  lazy  to  put  your- 
self out  about  it." 

The  Rector,  huge,  red,  protuberant-eyed,  banged 
down  his  hard  felt  hat  on  the  table.  "  Lazy ! "  he 
echoed,  in  a  voice  of  angry  offence.  "  That's  the  worst 
insult  I've  had  from  you  yet,  and  I  never  come  into  this 
house  but  what  I  get  insulted." 

"  Gad !  I  wish  I'd  got  your  job,"  pursued  his  brother. 
"  As  good  a  house  as  mine  —  for  a  bachelor  —  and  as 
good  a  cellar  of  port !  A  thousand  a  year  and  nothing 
in  the  world  to  do  but  enjoy  yourself!  Why  didn't  our 
father  bring  me  up  to  the  Church  ?  " 

The  Rector's  eyes  protruded  still  further,  and  his 
face  grew  redder.  "  You  in  the  Church !  "  he  snorted. 
"  You  haven't  got  the  brains  to  be  a  clerk.  A  pretty 
figure  you  would  cut  in  the  pulpit !  " 

"  Don't  lose  your  temper,  Giles.  You  will  get  apo- 
plexy one  of  these  days.  What's  to  be  done  with  the 
boy?" 

The  Rector  sat  down  heavily  in  an  arm-chair.  W:*h 
a  curious  sort  of  gobbling  motion  of  the  throat  he 
seemed  to  conclude  the  preliminary  round  of  personali- 
ties and  prepare  himself  for  the  business  on  which  he 
had  come.     "  The  boy  must  go  to  school,"  he  said. 


180         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  Edward  is  going  to  Eton  when  he's  twelve  years  old, 
and  hell  go  to  Cambridge  like  his  father  before  him.  If 
he  don't  stick  to  his  books  when  the  time  comes  for  books, 
as  well  as  he  sticks  to  his  little  horse  now,  he'll  find  bis 
grandfather  will  have  something  to  say  to  him." 

"  It  will  be  a  very  good  thing  for  him  to  go  to  Eton, 
or  to  any  other  big  school  —  if  they'll  take  him.  He 
will  be  with  other  boys  of  his  age,  or  older,  and  he'll 
learn  his  place  in  the  world." 

"  His  place  in  the  world  will  be  Squire  of  Kencote, 
and  he  is  not  going  to  school  to  learn  that." 

"  He  will  go  to  school  to  forget  it  for  a  few  years,  and 
no  harm  done  either.  Which  was  the  better  Squire  of 
Kencote,  I  should  like  to  know  —  our  uncle  the  Beau,  or 
our  father  the  Merchant?  The  one  had  learnt  to  rule 
himself,  and  when  he  came  to  rule  his  estate  he  ruled  it 
wisely.     The  other  learnt  neither  the  one  nor  the  other." 

"  You  think  my  grandson  is  shaping  like  our  Uncle 
Horace.  You  should  buy  yourself  a  pair  of  spectacles, 
Giles." 

"  I  don't  say  that,  but  when  he  goes  to  school  he 
will  have  boys  as  good  as  himself,  and  better,  to  pit  his 
wits  against.  He  won't  bully  them,  as  he  is  learning  to 
bully  his  aunts  and  the  grooms.  But  I  would  point  out 
to  you,  Thomas,  that  boys  of  twelve  are  expected  to  do 
more  than  read  a  little  and  write  a  little  and  add  two  and 
two  at  a  big  school.  Are  you  going  to  send  the  young 
Squire  of  Kencote  to  Eton  knowing  less  than  the  boys 
who  scare  the  rooks  from  your  wheat?  " 

"  He  is  learning  of  his  Aunt  Laura.  If  she  doesn't 
know  she's  a  fool  by  this  time  it  is  because  she  is  too 
stupid  to  take  a  hint.  She  has  no  authority  over  the 
boy,  and  of  course  he  is  not  going  to  learn  for  her. 


THE  LITTLE  SQUIRE  181 

You  had  better  take  him,  Giles.  It  will  give  you  some- 
thing to  do." 

"I  am  a  fair  scholar,  Thomas,  but  I  have  not  the 
power  of  imparting  learning." 

"  You  have  the  power  to  impart  a  good  swishing,  I 
suppose,  if  the  young  rascal  won't  stick  to  his  book. 
I'm  not  going  to  send  him  away  from  home." 

"  You  had  better  send  him  to  Bathgate  Grammar 
School  till  he  is  ready  for  Eton.  He  can  come  home 
every  Saturday  and  go  back  on  Mondays." 

"  What,  with  all  the  young  shopkeepers !  That's  a 
sensible  suggestion." 

"  It  is.  Our  father  was  a  shopkeeper,  if  it  comes  to 
that.  And  they  are  not  all  shopkeepers.  The  farmers 
send  their  sons  there,  the  warmest  of  'em,  and  a  good 
few  of  the  clergy,  and  so  on.  If  the  boy  can't  stand  on 
his  own  feet  and  make  himself  respected  among  his 
neighbours,  high  and  low,  he  had  better  begin  to  learn. 
They  will  ground  him  well,  and  when  the  time  comes  for 
him  to  go  to  Eton  you  will  have  no  cause  to  be  ashamed 
of  him." 

"  H'm  !  "  The  Squire  sat  considering.  "  The  school 
isn't  what  it  was,"  he  said.  "  But  it's  an  old  founda- 
tion. Edward  wouldn't  be  the  first  Clinton  to  learn  his 
Latin  grammar  there,  eh?  " 

"  I  know  Marvell,  the  headmaster  —  a  good  scholar 
and  stands  no  nonsense.  I'll  go  over  and  see  him.  The 
half  begins  on  Monday  fortnight,  and  the  boy  had  better 
be  ready  to  go  then." 

And  so,  with  some  further  discussion  it  was  settled. 
"  You  know,  Giles,  that  isn't  a  bad  idea  of  yours,"  said 
the  Squire,  at  the  end  of  the  conversation.  "  The  boy 
will  live  here  all  his  life,  please  God,  and  the  better  he 


182         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

knows  his  tenants,  the  better  he  will  look  after  the  prop- 
erty. Old  Burton  sends  his  boys  to  Bathgate,  and  Win- 
nington  of  L'oldharbour,  and  several  of  'em." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  exclaimed  the  Rector,  "  it's  eleven 
o'clock.  I  said  I'd  ride  over  to  Hatherley's  and  have  a 
look  at  those  puppies  he's  walking,  at  half-past.  I  must 
be  getting  along." 

"  Well,  come  up  and  dine,  Giles.  I  want  you  to  try 
that  '47  I've  laid  down.  That  is  going  to  be  a  very 
fine  wine." 

"  You  had  better  keep  it  for  the  boy,  Thomas.  I 
would  rather  have  a  bottle  of  the  '20." 

"  So  you  shall,  old  fellow.  We'll  have  a  bottle  apiece. 
Well,  good-bye  for  the  present.  Five  o'clock  sharp, 
mind." 

Ill 

So  the  little  Squire  rode  over  on  his  pony  to  the  old 
town  of  Bathgate,  and  his  luggage  followed  him  on  a 
cart.  He  took  up  his  residence  in  the  house  of  the  head- 
master, who  boarded  a  score  or  so  of  boys  of  all  ages 
from  eight  to  nineteen,  and,  assisted  by  a  small  but 
efficient  staff,  gave  a  sound  classical  education  to  about 
a  hundred.  Bathgate  was  an  old  school  and  a  good 
one,  but  it  was  certainly  rather  rough.  The  scholars 
were  farmers'  sons  and  tradesmen's  sons,  and  a  few 
parsons'  sons,  but  the  little  Squire  at  that  time  was  the 
only  representative  of  his  class,  although  in  days  gone 
by  many  of  the  landed  gentry  had  sent  their  boys  to 
Bathgate  Grammar  School. 

The  little  Squire  was  immensely  pleased  at  the  new 
departure.  He  was  a  sturdy  urchin  and  handy  with  his 
fists,  and  plunged  into  the  rough  and  tumble  of  school 
life  with  great  zest.     He  took  it  quite  for  granted  that 


THE  LITTLE  SQUIRE  183 

his  position  as  the  future  Squire  of  Kencote  would  be 
recognized  among  his  new  companions  as  readily  as  it 
was  among  the  village  boys  with  whom  he  sometimes 
played,  and  for  the  rest  he  was  prepared  to  take  his  part 
in  whatever  was  on  foot,  and  win  his  way  by  superior 
merit. 

But  he  had  not  been  at  school  a  day  before  he  was  dis- 
illusioned. Boys  do  not  demand  from  one  another  a 
high  standard  of  learning  or  diligence,  but  the  little 
Squire's  ignorance  of  letters  was  so  abysmal  as  to  afford 
mirth  to  his  new  school-fellows.  He  was  far  below  the 
standard  of  the  lowest  form,  and  was  handed  over  for 
instruction  to  the  headmaster's  daughter,  a  strong- 
minded  young  woman  who  thought  nothing  of  rapping 
him  over  the  head  with  her  knuckles  if  he  was  inattentive, 
and  was  never  tired  of  pointing  out  to  him  how  disgrace- 
ful it  was  for  a  boy  of  his  years  to  be  so  ignorant.  This 
view  was  also  expressed  in  various  forms  of  derision  by 
'his  school-fellows  ;  and  Masters,  the  draper's  son,  a  year 
younger  than  himself,  put  out  his  tongue  at  him  —  boys 
did  that  to  each  other  in  those  days  —  as  he  sat  in  a 
corner  of  the  big  schoolroom  with  his  governess,  over- 
whelmed with  shame  and  trouble. 

After  school  was  over  for  the  morning  he  went  up  to 
Masters  and  offered  to  fight  him.  Masters  accepted 
the  invitation  and  was  soon  laid  low,  but  he  was  smaller 
than  the  little  Squire,  who  derived  no  kudos  from  the 
combat.  "  Baby,  baby  Bunting !  "  yelled  the  small  fry, 
and  he  charged  into  them  blindly,  fists  whirling,  and 
presently  found  himself  in  single  combat  again  with  a 
boy  of  about  his  own  size  and  weight,  who  knew  a  good 
deal  more  about  the  game  than  he  did.  They  were 
parted  by  a  big  boy,  almost  a  young  man,  who  with 
others  had  watched  the  quarrel  from  a  distance.     This 


184         THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

was  Winnington,  the  head  of  the  school,  and  the  son  of 
one  of  the  Squire's  chief  tenants,  who  hail  been  wont  to 
touch  his  hat  to  the  little  Squire  when  he  had  met  him 
riding  about  Kencote.  He  did  not  touch  his  hat  now, 
nor  show  any  consciou>ries>  at  all  of  social  inferiority, 
but  called  him  "  young  Clinton,"  and  told  him  to  be 
careful  how  he  behaved. 

"  He  called  me  a  puling  baby,"  spluttered  the  little 
Squire,  in  deep  wrath. 

"  Well,  so  you  are  a  baby,"  said  Winnington.  "  We 
don't  like  ladies  teaching  in  Bathgate  School.  It's  a 
disgrace  to  all  of  us  as  well  as  you.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself."  And  Winnington  moved  away, 
leaving  the  little  Squire  no  less  surprised  than  angry. 

But  he  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  learnt  more 
during  the  rest  of  the  week  from  Miss  Marvell  than  he 
had  learnt  from  his  Aunt  Laura  in  three  years.  It  was 
a  terrible  thing  to  come  into  school  after  morning  chapel 
and  to  retire  to  a  corner  with  his  governess,  while  the 
other  boys  took  their  places  in  their  respective  forms, 
and  he  felt  it  deeply.  Its  effect  on  his  companions  kept 
them  from  giving  him  his  due  in  the  activities  that  occu- 
pied them  out  of  school  hours.  In  these  he  could  hold 
his  own  with  any  boy  of  his  age  and  with  many  a  good 
deal  older.  But  that  frightful  degradation  of  the  work- 
ing hours  dogged  him  throughout  the  day,  and  it  was 
only  by  dint  of  continual  and  pugnacious  aggression 
that  he  succeeded  in  keeping  up  his  own  self-respect  and 
keeping  down  the  taunts  of  his  enemies. 

IV 

On  Saturday  morning  a  groom  rode  over  from  Ken- 
cote leading  his  pony.     He  mounted  and  rode  off  with  a 


THE  LITTLE  SQUIRE  185 

gloomy  face,  and  the  little  group  of  boys  who  watched 
him  did  not  call  out  "  Baby  Bunting  "  as  they  had  done 
even  when  he  went  to  the  wicket  to  bat.  On  his  pony,  a 
born  little  horseman,  he  was  the  superior  of  any  of  them, 
and  the  liveried  groom,  riding  at  a  respectful  distance 
behind  him,  represented  a  social  eminence  more  clearly 
defined  in  those  days  than  in  these. 

As  he  rode  into  the  park,  past  the  lodge,  from  the 
door  of  which  the  lodge-keeper's  wife  dropped  him  a 
curtsey,  he  gained  for  the  first  time  a  faint  impression  of 
the  importance  of  the  kingdom  over  which  he  was  one 
day  to  reign.  It  had  never  been  hidden  from  him  since 
his  babyhood  that  he  would  have  great  possessions,  but 
boylike  he  had  taken  everything  for  granted,  and 
thought  of  the  day  only  and  not  of  the  future  years. 

He  saw  the  great  house,  white  and  massive,  and  rather 
ugly,  in  front  of  him  on  a  slight  eminence,  and  it  had 
just  the  effect  of  increasing  his  childish  anger  against 
those  who  had  no  such  solid  dignity  behind  them,  but  yet 
had  treated  him  with  contumely.  The  impression  was 
not  formulated  in  his  mind,  and  as  he  dismounted  be- 
fore the  porticoed  doorway  and  saw  his  aunts  grouped 
in  a  bunch  of  smiling  spinsterhood  to  greet  him,  he  said 
only : 

"  Aunt  Laura,  why  didn't  you  teach  me  more?  " 

This  was  the  note  of  his  two  days  at  home. 

His  aunts,  pleased  enough  to  welcome  their  dear  tor- 
ment, were  not  above  enjoying  a  mild  revenge,  and  his 
grandfather  laughed  at  him  when  he  poured  out  the  tale 
of  his  woes.  He  thought  that  the  stable-boys  grinned 
at  him  behind  his  back,  and  that  all  the  village,  gathered 
in  the  church  on  Sunday,  must  know  of  the  indignities 
to  which  he  had  been  subjected. 

When  he  had  ridden  off  again  early  on  Monday  morn- 


186         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

ing  the  Squire  and  the  Rector  chuckled  with  one  another. 

"  They  are  teaching  him  what  he's  worth,"  said  the 
Rector. 

"  I'll  wager  he'll  be  up  to  them  in  no  time,"  said  the 
Squire. 

V 

On  tin-  next  Saturday  morning  he  came  home  more 
angry  than  ever.  Matters  had  reached  a  crisis.  Win- 
nington,  the  son  of  a  Kencote  farmer,  had  licked  him, 
Edward  Clinton,  the  future  Squire  of  Kencote,  for  being 
"  coxy."  Surely  his  grandfather  would  never  stand 
that !  Winnington's  father  must  be  turned  out  of  his 
farm  and  the  whole  family  reduced  to  beggary  for  such 
an  outrage. 

The  Squire  had  already  had  the  story.  Mr.  Marvell, 
the  grim-visaged  headmaster,  had  ridden  over  to  tell  it 
to  his  friend,  the  Rector.  "  He  bragged  about  his 
ponies  and  his  dogs  and  his  guns  and  I  don't  know  what 
—  his  clothes  too,  I  believe,"  he  said.  "  Young  Win- 
nington  was  quite  right  to  give  him  a  hiding.  A  boy 
is  what  he's  worth  in  my  school,  and  I  don't  care  who 
he  is  outside  it." 

"  Quite  right,"  said  the  Rector,  "  my  brother  won't 
mind." 

"  If  he  does,"  said  the  headmaster,  "  you  will  have  my 
young  gentleman  back  on  }'our  hands.  I'm  glad 
enough  to  have  the  boy,  Clinton,  though  he  knows  less 
than  any  of  them.  But  I'm  not  going  to  have  the  school 
turned  upside  down  for  him.  He'll  be  treated  like  the 
rest." 

So  when  the  little  Squire  poured  out  his  story,  and  de- 
manded instant  reprisals,  his  grandfather  laughed  at 


THE  LITTLE  SQUIRE  187 

him  as  before.     Then  he  took  a  sovereign  out  of  his 
pocket. 

"  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  you'll  do,"  he  said.  «  You'll 
give  that  to  young  Winnington  with  my  compliments, 
you'll  thank  him  for  giving  you  a  hiding,  and  you'll 
tell  him  to  give  you  another  one  whenever  you  forget  to 
behave  yourself  like  a  gentleman." 

The  little  Squire  was  so  astonished  that  he  could  only 
stare  at  his  grandfather  with  open  mouth. 

"  I  have  heard  all  about  it,"  said  the  Squire.  "  You 
have  been  bragging.  A  gentleman  never  brags.  If  you 
can't  show  that  you're  worth  as  much  as  other  fellows 
by  what  you  can  do  yourself,  it's  a  dirty  trick  to  try 
and  crow  over  them  because  you  have  had  more  given  to 
you  than  they  have.      Do  you  understand  that,  now?  " 

The  little  Squire,  with  hanging  head,  thought  he  did. 
But  for  Winnington  to  give  him  a  hiding  — ! 

"  Young  Winnington's  a  fine  fellow,"  pursued  the 
Squire.  "  He  has  worked  himself  up  to  be  head  of  the 
school,  and  he  has  a  career  before  him.  But  I  don't 
care  whether  he  has  a  career  or  not.  He's  over  you 
where  you  are  at  present,  and  you've  got  to  take  his 
orders.  When  I  first  joined  my  regiment  my  Colonel 
was  the  son  of  a  wine-cooper,  by  George,  and  he  was  one 
of  the  finest  officers  in  the  service.  A  pretty  thing  if 
men  of  family  had  refused  to  serve  under  him  because 
he  had  none !     Eh !  " 

The  little  Squire  was  silent. 

"  Now  you  will  do  what  I  tell  you,"  concluded  his 
grandfather,  "  and  don't  come  to  me  with  any  more  tales 
of  your  schoolfellows'  behaviour  to  you.  You've  got  to 
make  yourself  respected  among  them.  I'm  not  going 
to  do  it  for  you." 


188         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

When  the  little  Squire  reached  the  school  on  Monday 
morning  the  boys  were  in  the  yard  waiting  to  go  into 
chapel.  Winnington,  a  tall,  dark-haired  youth  with  a 
grave  face,  was  standing  under  the  cloisters  with  a  few 
others  of  the  sixth  form. 

The  little  Squire  marched  up  to  him  resolutely,  his 
cheeks  aflame.  There  were  one  or  two  faint  cries  of 
"  Baby  Bunting,"  but  for  the  most  part  the  boys  waited 
in  silence  for  what  should  happen.      He  had  his  audience. 

He  held  out  the  sovereign  to  Winnington.  "  My 
grandfather  sends  you  this  with  his  compliments,"  he 
said.  "  He  said  I  was  to  thank  you  for  giving  me  a 
licking,  and  he  hopes  you  will  give  me  another  if  I  ever 
brag  again." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Winnington  took  the 
coin  which  was  held  out  to  him,  and  held  it  in  his  hand 
without  saying  anything.  The  little  Squire  relieved  the 
tension  by  bursting  into  tears.  He  was  a  very  small 
boy,  and  he  had  taken  a  very  big  fence.  But  nobody 
cried  "  Baby  Bunting,"  and  he  dried  his  eyes  in  a  mo- 
ment. The  chapel  bell  began  to  ring  and  Winnington 
took  him  by  the  shoulder  and  led  him  up  the  stairs  be- 
fore them  all. 


AUDACIOUS  ANN 


AUDACIOUS  ANN 


IT  all  began  with  Mary  Polegate's  illuminated  chart 
of  the  kings  of  Juda  and  Israel.  This  work  of  art 
had  its  inception  before  Ann  came  to  the  school, 
and  would  have  been  finished  and  presented  to  Miss 
Sutor  in  time  to  prevent  the  trouble  that  came  of  it, 
but  for  a  grave  disaster  that  had  befallen  the  first  at- 
tempt. Misled  by  the  resemblance  of  names  between 
King  Jehoiakim  and  his  son  King  Jehoiachin,  Mary 
Polegate  had  given  the  latter  an  "  m  "  instead  of  an 
"  n,"  and  her  efforts  to  correct  the  mistake  had  spoilt 
the  fine  perfection  of  the  work,  by  this  time,  together 
with  the  Christmas  term,  nearing  its  completion.  So 
she  had  resigned  herself  to  beginning  all  over  again, 
supported  by  the  gratifying  sympathy  of  the  whole 
school,  and  not  altogether  displeased,  after  she  had  got 
over  her  first  disappointment,  at  having  something  to 
do  in  her  spare  hours  that  would  arouse  general  inter- 
est for  a  whole  term  longer  than  she  had  anticipated. 

Mary  Polegate  was  a  very  good  girl.  She  had  never 
been  known  to  be  late  for  anything  during  the  five  years 
she  had  been  at  Miss  Sutor's  school,  and  as  for  reading 
play  books  in  prep,  or  tearing  out  pages  of  her  rough 
notebook  to  write  letters  on,  she  would  have  been  in- 
capable of  such  deeds,  even  before  she  was  a  monitor. 
She  was  not  among  Miss  Sutor's  brightest  pupils,  and 
while  that  lady  treated  her  with  invariable  patience  and 
consideration,  Miss  Henderson,  the  second  mistress,  was 
apt  to  be  sarcastic  at  her  expense.  But  Mary  Pole- 
gate  received  her  sarcasms  with  a  bland  and  beautiful 

191 


192         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

meekness,  which  arose  partly  from  her  equability  of 
temper,  partly  from  her  inability  to  understand  the 
shafts  aimed  at  her.  Other  girls  who  did  understand 
them,  expressed  their  indignation  with  Miss  Henderson 
among  themselves,  and  made  up  for  her  unkindness  by 
being  specially  nice  to  Mary  Polegate. 

There  were  between  forty  and  fifty  girls  at  "  The 
Cedars,"  Miss  Sutor's  school.  Until  Ann's  arrival 
there  had  been  only  one  day-pupil,  Hilda  Lang,  the 
daughter  of  the  doctor  who  attended  the  school. 
Dr.  Lang  also  attended  Lady  Sinclair,  who  lived  in  a 
large  house  on  the  sea-front,  and  when  Ann  came  to 
live  with  her  grandmother  it  was  arranged  that  she  too 
should  be  a  day-pupil  at  Miss  Sutor's  school.  This  was 
a  fortnight  or  so  after  the  beginning  of  the  Easter  term, 
when  Mary  Polegate's  illuminated  chart  had  reached 
Jehosaphat,  and  she  was  nearing  the  end  of  her  first 
shell  of  gold. 

Ann  was  received  at  "  The  Cedars  "  with  a  degree 
of  attention  that  would  have  turned  the  heads  of  most 
girls  of  thirteen.  Her  grandmother  was  a  well-known 
resident  of  the  town,  and  her  handsome  equipage 
brought  her  every  Sunday  to  the  church  attended  by 
Miss  Sutor's  school.  She  was  known  to  be  rich  and 
generous,  and  to  like  "  young  things."  Hilda  Lang 
had  been  to  tea  at  her  house,  to  be  introduced  to  Ann, 
and  her  account  of  the  entertainment  was  enthusiastic. 
Lady  Sinclair  had  told  Ann  in  her  hearing  that  when 
she  got  to  know  her  new  schoolfellows  she  might  ask 
some  of  them  to  tea  every  Saturday.  Furthermore,  Ann 
had  her  own  sitting-room  on  the  top  floor  of  the  big 
house  overlooking  the  sea,  and  her  bedroom  next  to  it. 
They  had  been  beautifully  furnished  for  her,  and  she 
was  allowed  to  do  what  she  liked  with  them  in  the  way 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  193 

of  decoration.  She  had  a  little  maid,  the  niece  of  Lady 
Sinclair's  own  maid,  with  whom  she  was  also  appar- 
ently allowed  to  do  much  as  she  liked,  or  at  any  rate 
did  it,  whether  allowed  or  not.  She  had  a  most  ex- 
tensive wardrobe  for  a  child  of  her  age,  and,  indeed, 
her  first  appearance  in  church,  in  a  beautifully  tailored 
coat  and  skirt  of  pastel  blue  cloth,  with  a  cap  and  fur 
of  silver  fox,  had  aroused  admiring  comment,  before 
she  had  been  known.  She  had  half  a  crown  a  week 
pocket  money,  besides  occasional  golden  windfalls  from 
visiting  uncles  with  high-sounding  names.  In  fact,  she 
was  in  process  of  being  spoilt  all  round,  and  the  tend- 
ency among  the  girls  at  Miss  Sutor's  was  to  help  on  the 
process  when  she  first  came  among  them. 

Ann  was  a  young  person  of  unusual  attractions.  She 
had  large  grey  eyes  and  a  straight  little  nose,  the 
bridge  of  which  was  adorned  with  faint  freckles,  and  a 
short  upper  lip  that  showed  a  row  of  beautiful  teeth 
whenever  she  smiled  or  laughed,  which  was  frequently. 
She  had  the  most  delicate  skin,  through  which  the  colour 
that  came  and  went  so  readily  with  her  showed  more 
than  she  could  have  wished,  as  it  made  her  feelings  of 
the  moment  too  apparent.  Her  hair  was  a  warm  brown, 
and  fell  into  natural  waves  and  curls.  It  stood  out 
round  her  head  like  a  nimbus,  and  had  not  been  allowed 
to  grow  long.  She  was  straight  and  thin,  with  a  figure 
rather  like  a  boy's,  and  looked  younger  than  her  years 
on  that  account,  and  because  of  the  clothes  she  wore. 
Her  mother  had  been  French,  and  she  had  lived  the 
greater  part  of  her  life  in  France,  where  girls  of  her 
age  are  dressed  more  childishly  than  in  England.  Her 
frocks  still  stopped  short  at  the  knees,  and  she  was 
very  lacy  and  frilly  on  occasions  where  it  was  suitable 
to  be  so. 


194         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

Both  her  parents  were  dead,  and  she  had  been  brought 
up  with  a  large  family  of  cousins,  partly  in  Paris,  partly 
in  a  chateau  in  Touraine,  with  long  visits  to  English 
relations  interspersed.  French  was  her  natural  tongue, 
but  she  spoke  English  with  a  perfect  accent,  except  for 
the  faintest  little  trill  of  the  "  r  "s,  which  her  fine  mu- 
sical ear  told  her  was  wrong,  but  which  she  could  never 
quite  overcome.  Her  English  vocabulary,  however,  was 
not  equal  to  her  requirements,  and  she  eked  it  out  with 
a  liberal  use  of  French  words,  or  with  literal  transla- 
tions of  French  phrases.  She  tried  to  get  the  better  of 
this,  although  it  was  considered  an  added  attraction 
by  her  admirers,  and  she  made  fast  progress  when  she 
came  to  live  in  England.  But  in  moments  of  excitement 
she  would  relapse,  and  it  amused  her  to  make  use  of 
many  expressions  not  usual  on  the  lips  of  young  girls, 
though  otherwise  harmless,  which  she  had  picked  up  from 
her  male  cousins. 

She  had  other  accomplishments.  She  played  the 
violin  —  she  had  a  perfect  little  model  of  a  Nicola 
Gagliano  —  with  great  purity  of  tone.  She  also  played 
hockey,  with  a  complete  absence  of  fear,  and,  when  she 
began  to  know  something  about  the  game,  with  ever 
increasing  skill.  She  could  make  people  laugh,  and 
laughed  herself,  with  such  entire  appreciation  of  her 
own  jokes,  and  looked  so  "  sweet  "  when  she  did  so,  that 
some  of  the  older  girls  were  always  wanting  to  embrace 
her.  But  she  presented  such  an  angular  frame  to  the 
attempt,  and  was  so  sparing  of  her  own  endearments, 
that  the  phase  gradually  wore  off,  and  by  the  time  she 
had  been  at  the  school  for  a  week  she  was  accepted  as 
a  person  of  independent  character  who  refused  to  be 
taken  up  by  anybody. 

Her  chief  friend  was  Hilda  Lang,  who  was  a  yea* 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  195 

older  than  herself,  but  soon  settled  down  to  follow  her 
leadership.  The  girls  she  asked  to  tea  at  her  grand- 
mother's house  were  those  in  her  own  class.  She  at- 
tached herself  to  no  "  big  girl,"  but  treated  them  all  as 
if  she  were  at  least  their  equal. 


II 

After  a  time,  Ann's  audacity  in  this  respect  began  to 
weigh  upon  her  elders.  It  was  not  what  the  school  was 
accustomed  to.  She  played  pranks.  She  changed  the 
gym  shoes  of  the  elder  girls,  hanging  up  in  holland  bags 
in  the  cloak  room,  and  did  not  even  change  them  in 
pairs,  which  would  have  led  to  less  confusion  and  waste 
of  time.  Margaret  Parbury,  the  head  girl,  told  her 
to  report  herself  to  Miss  Sutor,  and  when  Ann  had  satis- 
fied herself  that  the  order  was  according  to  law  she 
obeyed  it,  with  an  engaging  smile  upon  her  face,  as  if 
she  quite  expected  Miss  Sutor  to  appreciate  the  joke 
as  much  as  she  and  Hilda  Lang  had  done.  She  re- 
ceived her  "  talking  to  "  with  bright  amiability,  and 
readily  promised  not  to  offend  in  this  way  again. 

But  the  very  next  week  she  brought  a  jumping 
wooden  frog  to  school,  and  having  carefully  practised 
its  range,  caused  it  to  alight  upon  Mabel  Finney's 
"  Corneille,"  as  she  was  reading  aloud  with  a  heavy 
British  accent  during  the. course  of  a  French  lesson. 
Mabel  Finney  was  short-sighted,  and  happened  to  have 
been  born  with  a  strong  distaste  for  frogs,  of  which 
she  thought  she  saw  a  live  specimen  before  her.  She 
shrieked,  and  dropped  her  spectacles,  and  there  was  a 
general  scandalized  commotion,  which  Ann  appeared  to 
enjoy  excessively.  Mademoiselle  was  very  angry  with 
her,  and  said  she  should  certainly  tell  Miss  Sutor;  but 


196         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

she  was  voung  and  rather  homesick,  and  Ann  presently 
read  a  passage  in  a  way  that  so  deliciously  soothed  her 
much-tried  ears  that  she  let  her  off. 

But  the  class  as  a  whole  was  incensed  against  her. 
It  was  the  First  French  Class,  and  Ann,  who  was  by 
far  the  youngest  girl  in  it,  should  have  comported  her- 
self with  modesty  on  that  account.  This  was  explained 
to  her,  and  she  only  laughed,  which  incensed  her  critics 
still  further.  Margaret  Parbury  told  her  that  she  was 
turning  the  discipline  of  the  whole  school  upside  down. 
They  were  not  going  to  have  younger  girls  behaving 
impertinently  to  big  girls,  and  especially  to  monitors. 
If  she  offended  in  that  way  again  she  would  be  sent  to 
Coventry. 

"  Merci  pour  la  langouste!  "  said  Ann.  "  What  hap- 
pens there?  " 

It  was  explained  to  her  that  the  monitors  were  al- 
lowed to  decree  that  the  whole  school  should  refuse  to 
speak  to  or  hold  any  communication  with  a  girl  who  had 
misbehaved  herself,  in  certain  ways  that  did  not  actually 
necessitate  reporting  her  to  Miss  Sutor.  They  might 
carry  on  this  punishment  for  a  week,  and  if  the  culprit 
did  not  express  contrition  and  a  promise  of  amendment 
within  that  time  the  case  then  had  to  be  reported  to  Miss 
Sutor,  who  dealt  with  it. 

"  But  it  has  never  been  necessary  to  send  a  girl  to 
Coventry  for  longer  than  three  days,"  said  Margaret. 
"  So  I  should  advise  you  not  to  force  us  to  do  it  to  you, 
Ann,  for  I  warn  you  that  you  won't  like  it  at  all." 

"  Oh,  I  would  detest  it,"  said  Ann.  "  But,  ecotitez, 
if  I  told  a  girl  that  a  spider  was  mounting  to  her  neck, 
couldn't  she  say  '  thank  you  '?  " 

"  You  may  make  fun  of  it  if  you  like,"  said  Mabel 
Finney,  who  was  still  indignant  at  the  landing  of  the 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  197 

frog  on  her  book,  "  but  you  won't  make  fun  of  it  if  we 
decide  to  send  you  to  Coventry.  I  think  you  ought  to 
be  sent  there  for  what  you  did  this  morning.  A  good 
many  people  would  have  been  frightened  into  convul- 
sions by  it." 

"  Ta  bouclie,  bebel  "  said  Ann.  "  Wouldn't  Hilda 
Lang  be  permitted  to  speak  to  me  when  we  walked  home 
together?  How  would  you  know  whether  she  did  it 
or  not  ?  " 

This  was  a  point  that  had  not  yet  arisen  in  practical 
politics,  and  Margaret  Parbury,  to  whom  the  question 
had  been  put,  with  an  air  of  detached  interest,  hesi- 
tated. But  Mabel  Finney  said :  "  An}'  girl  who  breaks 
the  rules  of  Coventry  is  sent  to  Coventry  herself.  We 
all  know  that  you  egg  on  Hilda  Lang  to  follow  your  bad 
example  and  be  rude  to  the  elder  girls.  She  behaved 
very  well  before  you  came,  and  now  she's  nearly  as  bad 
as  you  are.  She  had  better  be  careful  too,  for  we  are 
not  going  to  stand  any  more  of  it,  from  either  of  you." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  go  and  tell  her,"  said  Ann. 
"  Thank  you  very  much  for  explicating  things.  You 
will  find  that  I  shall  make  much  progress." 

Hilda  Lang  was  not  inclined  to  make  light  of  the 
punishment  of  being  sent  to  Coventry,  which  she  had 
already  seen  in  operation.  "  We  did  it  last  term  to 
Bertha  Mainwaring,"  she  said.  "  We  were  all  pretty 
sure  that  she  got  translations  of  her  Latin  from  a  book 
in  Miss  Henderson's  room.  She  was  always  going  there 
on  some  excuse,  when  Miss  Henderson  was  out.  She 
wouldn't  confess,  and  we  didn't  like  to  tell  Miss  Hen- 
derson, so  we  told  the  monitors,  and  they  sent  her  to 
Coventry.  She  cried  all  the  time,  and  confessed  on  the 
second  day." 

"  They   couldn't  make  me   cry,"   said  Ann.     "  No- 


198         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

body  in  this  school  shall  ever  see  me  upset  sonic  tears." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  Miss  Ann,"  put  in  Lizzie,  Ann's  maid, 
under  whose  escort  the  two  girls  went  to  and  from 
school.  "  You  needn't  make  3'ourself  out  braver  than 
you  are.  You  cried  when  you  came  home  from  hockey 
the  other  afternoon,  with  that  big  bruise  on  your  leg." 

Ann  turned  a  scarlet,  wrathful  face  on  her.  "  How 
dare  you  report  tales?  "  she  cried.  "  I  didn't  let  any- 
body know  I'd  been  hurt,  and  I  didn't  even  walk 
crooked  till  the  school  couldn't  see  me,  though  it  hurt 
very  much." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  it  was  a  dreadful  great  bruise," 
said  Lizzie,  "  and  it  wasn't  much  you  cried.  Still,  cry 
you  did,  and  it's  no  use  pretending  you  didn't." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  never  cried,"  said  Ann ;  "  but  I 
shouldn't  cry  at  school,  and  if  I  like  to  cry  at  home 
sometimes  that's  my  affair,  and  it  isn't  for  you  to  say 
anything  about  it.  You  can  walk  behind  us.  We 
don't  want  you  mixing  yourself  in  our  conversation." 

"  Being  sent  to  Coventry  is  pretty  beastly,"  said 
Hilda.  "  Still,  it  might  be  rather  fun  if  you  or  I  were, 
because  they  couldn't  do  anything  to  stop  us  doing  or 
saying  what  we  liked,  except  when  we  were  actually  at 
school." 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  to  taste  of  it,"  said  Ann.  "  I 
like  them  all,  truly,  except  Mabel  Finney,  who  is  vin- 
dictive. Fancy  making  all  that  fuss  about  a  wooden 
frog!" 

Ill 

The  further  details  that  Hilda  Lang  gave  her  on  the 
quick  reduction  to  penitence  of  Bertha  Mainwaring, 
who  had  left  the  term  before,  persuaded  Ann  that  it  was 
worth  while  to  take  some  trouble  to  avoid  the  path  that 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  199 

led  to  Coventry,  and  she  comported  herself  for  the  next 
few  weeks  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  no  excuse  for  de- 
spatching her  on  the  journey.  She  treated  the  older 
girls  with  no  particular  veneration,  but  refrained  from 
any  serious  offence  against  their  dignity ;  and  with 
her  own  contemporaries  she  became  highly  popular. 

It  was  a  much  coveted  privilege  to  be  invited  to  tea 
with  Ann.  She  entertained  three  or  four  friends  in  this 
way  every  week,  and  she  was  very  fair  about  it,  leaving 
nobody  in  her  class  out  altogether,  although  she  did 
not  like  them  all  equally. 

The  girls  were  first  of  all  introduced  to  Lady  Sin- 
clair, who  was  usually  to  be  found  after  her  afternoon 
drive  knitting  in  a  chair  by  the  drawing-room  fire. 
She  was  a  handsome,  precise  old  lady,  but  always  had 
something  to  say  to  Ann's  guests  that  put  them  at  their 
ease  with  her.  She  was  evidently  extremely  fond  of 
her  little  granddaughter,  and  it  was  pretty  to  see  her 
holding  the  child's  slim  figure  to  her  as  she  talked,  or 
stroking  her  curly  head  with  her  thin  old  hand,  and  al- 
ways taking  the  opportunity  to  kiss  her  as  she  dismissed 
them  to  their  entertainment  upstairs. 

It  was  generally  agreed  that  Ann  behaved  beautifully 
to  her.  Although  she  was  known  to  object  to  promis- 
cuous kissing,  she  was  full  of  little  endearments  to  her 
grandmother,  and  always  very  careful  to  see  that  she 
was  exactly  suited  in  the  matter  of  cushions  and  foot- 
stool before  she  left  her.  She  never  played  hockey  on 
Saturday  afternoons,  because  her  grandmother  liked 
her  to  go  for  a  drive  with  her.  The  school,  walking  two 
and  two  to  the  hockey  field,  would  sometimes  be  passed, 
but  not  very  quickly,  by  Lady  Sinclair's  carriage,  in 
which,  seated  in  state,  were  the  very  old  lady  and  the 
very  young  one,  both  beautifully  dressed  in  their  re- 


200         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

spective  fashions,  and  neither  of  them  looking  as  if  she 
would  much  prefer  to  be  playing  hockey  to  driving  along 
the  sea  front  at  a  steady  six  or  seven  miles  an  hour. 
Ann  would  turn  a  bright  face  towards  the  serge-coated 
and  skirted  line,  and  wave  her  neatly  gloved  hand;  and 
if  she  wore  rather  a  wistful  look  when  the  plump  roan 
horses  slowly  outdistanced  the  procession,  it  did  not 
last  long,  and  her  conversation  was  as  gay  and  as  con- 
genial as  possible  to  the  old  lady,  who  enjoyed  her  Sat- 
urday afternoon  drives  more  than  those  of  other  days 
in  the  week. 

The  only  indirect  criticism  that  Ann  was  ever  known 
to  pass  upon  her  grandmother  was  when  she  was  asked 
by  Gertrude  Pilchcr,  whose  favourite  form  of  recrea- 
tion was  to  design  fashion-plates,  to  exhibit  some  of 
her  clothes.  "  Oh,  bother  clothes !  "  said  Ann.  "  I 
am  quite  enough  occupied  by  them.  If  you  want  to 
sec  them,  Lizzie  can  show  you." 

Gertrude  Pilcher,  and  some  others,  thought  that  Ann 
showed  a  surprising  lack  of  appreciation  of  the  beauti- 
ful things  that  her  grandmother  liked  to  buy  for  her. 
They  thought  that  if  they  had  as  many  new  clothes 
as  Ann  was  always  appearing  in,  and  such  fine  and  ex- 
pensive ones,  they  would  be  placed  in  a  continual  state 
of  happiness,  especially  if  they  showed  them  off  as  well 
as  she  did.  But  Ann  admitted  to  Hilda  Lang  that,  al- 
though she  liked  to  look  nice,  the  continual  tryings  on 
and  dressings  up  were  the  bane  of  her  existence.  If  she 
were  only  allowed  to  run  about  sometimes  in  old  clothes, 
she  could  support  it  better  to  be  so  often  made  to  ap- 
pear endimanchee.  But  she  did  a  good  deal  of  running 
about  none  the  less,  in  clothes  that  if  not  old  were 
convenient  to  the  purpose,  and  admitted  that  perhaps  it 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  201 

wasn't  very  nice  of  her  to  grumble,  when  it  pleased 
Granny  so  much  to  buy  pretty  things  for  her. 

Ann's  tea-parties  were  always  prolific  of  surprise 
in  the  way  of  edibles,  although  her  grandmother's  spoil- 
ing of  her  did  not  reach  to  the  extent  of  allowing  her 
anything  but  the  plainest  food  in  the  ordinary  way. 
All  the  servants  adored  Ann,  and  the  cook  surpassed 
herself  on  these  occasions  in  providing  her  and  her 
guests  with  cakes  and  sweets  that  were  as  attractive  to 
the  eye  as  they  were  to  the  palate.  Ann  would  go  down- 
stairs when  the  girls  had  left,  to  thank  her  —  to  those 
comfortable  sacred  lower  regions  to  which  a  visit  from 
above  by  anybody  but  Ann  would  have  been  considered 
an  unwarrantable  intrusion. 

"  Well  now,  honey,"  the  fat  cook  would  say,  "  it's 
a  pleasure  to  do  anything  for  you,  you  do  thank  one  so 
pretty,  bless  your  sweet  face !  If  you  liked  your  tea, 
just  go  and  ask  her  ladyship  if  you  may  give  us  a  tune 
on  that  there  little  fiddle  of  yours." 

So  Ann,  having  obtained  leave,  would  bring  down  her 
precious  Gagliano,  and  play  to  as  appreciative  an  au- 
dience as  she  was  ever  likely  to  get  anywhere.  Besides 
the  cook,  there  would  be  the  old  butler,  two  middle- 
aged  housemaids,  and  a  young  footman  of  a  mere  thirty- 
five  or  so,  who  was  still  considered  something  of  an  up- 
start in  this  established  society.  Lady  Sinclair's  maid 
would  form  part  of  the  audience  if  her  duties  permitted, 
and  the  doors  would  be  left  open  for  the  benefit  of  the 
kitchen-maid,  busy  with  the  first  stages  of  preparing 
for  the  ritual  of  dinner,  who,  having  only  about  fifteen 
years  service  to  her  credit,  had  to  be  kept  in  her  place. 
Lizzie,  as  an  infant  of  seventeen,  was  not  encouraged  to 
present  herself  among  her  elders  except  officially,  and 


202         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

as  she  was  apt  to  be  severely  cross-examined  by  them 
when  she  did  so,  as  to  the  way  she  was  fulfilling  her 
duties  towards  her  young  mistress,  she  was  not  anxious 
to  appear  when  there  was  no  necessity. 

To  all  these  middle-aged  men  and  women,  whose  lives 
were  so  comfortable  and  easy  that  they  were  in  danger 
of  being  stifled  by  them,  the  advent  of  Ann  had  brought 
a  waft  of  sweet  fresh  air,  which  had  the  effect  of  re- 
vivifying them,  and  arousing  their  atrophied  interests 
in  youth  and  innocence.  They  were  all  jealous  of  Liz- 
zie, who  absorbed  the  bulk  of  the  service  necessary  to 
Ann's  existence,  and  they  would  all  put  themselves  out 
to  do  some  little  thing  for  her  if  occasion  could  be  found. 
The  old  butler  liked  to  serve  her  breakfast  himself, 
though  he  had  to  get  up  an  hour  earlier  to  do  so  on  the 
da}rs  when  she  went  to  school.  The  footman  never 
made  any  complaint  about  carrying  up  coals  to  her 
schoolroom,  or  suggested  that  Lizzie  should  do  it  her- 
self, and  took  as  much  pains  with  her  boots  and  shoes 
as  if  they  were  her  ladyship's  own.  Neither  of  the 
housemaids  would  allow  Lizzie  to  "  do  "  her  rooms  en- 
tirely. 

Ann  was  merry  and  friendly  with  them,  but  a  little 
stately  too,  because  her  grandmother  did  not  like  her 
"  being  too  much  with  the  servants."  She  was  very 
considerate  of  their  feelings,  careful  of  the  dignity  of 
their  age  and  long  service,  and  not  only  never  pla}Ted 
any  of  her  pranks  upon  them  but  never  teased  them  in 
a  way  that  might  wound  their  staid  vanities.  It  is  true 
that  she  made  up  for  this  by  leading  Lizzie  "  a  regular 
dance "  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  apartments,  and 
that  somewhat  pert  handmaid  would  say  that  it  beat 
her  altogether  how  any  one  who  could  behave  like  such 
a  perfect  little  lady  downstairs,  to  them  as  did  next 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  203 

to  nothing  for  her,  should  so  far  demean  herself  as  to 
do  and  say  the  things  she  did  to  one  who  worked  her 
hands  to  the  bone  for  her  from  morning  till  night. 

But  it  will  be  seen  that,  with  this  one  regrettable  ex- 
ception, Ann  was  as  good  as  gold  in  her  grandmother's 
house,  and  deserved  all  the  love  and  attention  that  was 
lavished  on  her.  It  is  only  right  to  point  this  out,  as 
her  behaviour  at  school  was  often  so  much  the  reverse 
of  exemplary. 

IV 

As  Ann  has  been  shown  moving  in  such  a  gracious  and 
placid  atmosphere  at  home,  it  will  not  throw  the  picture 
of  her  out  of  balance  to  recount  one  or  two  of  her 
escapades  at  school,  before  we  return  to  the  episode  of 
Mary  Polegate's  illuminated  chart  of  the  Kings  of  Juda 
and  Israel,  and  tell  what  came  of  it. 

The  class-room  in  which  Ann's  lessons  were  mostly 
done  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and  its  windows  opened 
into  the  garden.  One  warm  spring  morning,  during 
the  eleven  o'clock  interval,  Hilda  Lang  dared  her  to  get 
in  at  the  window  instead  of  through  the  door,  when  the 
bell  rang.  Ann  accepted  the  challenge.  The  window 
was  too  high  to  be  negotiated  easily.  Ann  did  it,  at  the 
expense  of  a  clean  washing  frock,  but  not  quickly 
enough  to  escape  the  notice  of  Miss  Henderson,  who 
walked  in  at  the  door  just  as  Ann  was  scrambling 
through  the  window,  in  a  series  of  postures  not  the 
most  reticent. 

Miss  Henderson  stood  still,  and  waited  until  Ann 
had  reached  the  floor.  "  Well,  upon  my  word !  "  she 
said  coldly.  "  That  is  pretty  behaviour  for  a  girl  who 
is  supposed  to  be  a  lady."  (Miss  Henderson  was  al- 
ways very  strong  upon  girls  being  ladies.)     "But  it 


204         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

is  an  exhibition  that  I  regret  to  say,  much  as  it  may 
surprise  you,  Ann,  I  do  not  appreciate.  Perhaps  Miss 
Sutor  may  regard  it  in  another  light.  You  will  go  to 
her  at  once,  just  as  you  are,  and  see  what  she  says  about 
it.  Gertrude  Pilcher,  you  will  go  with  her,  and  see 
that  she  does  not  do  anything  on  the  way  to  make  her- 
self more  presentable  than  she  thinks  it  necessary  to 
appear  before  me." 

When  the  two  girls  were  in  the  passage,  Gertrude 
Pilcher,  more  harassed  in  her  mind  over  the  damage 
done  to  Ann's  pretty  frock  than  mindful  of  the  call  of 
honour,  said:  "I  must  just  get  off  the  worst,  Ann. 
We  can  get  a  brush  in  the  cloak  room.  You  needn't 
wash  your  hands." 

Ann  marched  straight  ahead  with  her  nose  in  the 
air  and  a  deep  blush  overspreading  her  face.  Her  in- 
dignation upheld  her  under  Miss  Sutor's  stern  rebuke, 
to  which  she  listened  in  silence.  When  it  was  over,  and 
she  was  told  to  go  back  and  apologize  to  Miss  Hender- 
son, sne  said:  "Miss  Henderson  told  me  to  come  di- 
rectly to  you,  just  as  I  was,  and  then  told  Gertrude 
Pilcher  to  come  with  me  to  see  that  I  didn't  arrange  my- 
self first." 

Miss  Sutor  looked  at  her,  not  very  amiably,  for  she 
had  been  disturbed  in  a  very  private  hour,  and  thought 
that  Miss  Henderson  might  have  sent  Ann  to  her  after 
school.  "  I  think  it  would  have  been  more  respectful 
if  you  had  tidied  yourself  before  you  came  to  me,"  she 
said.  "  Go  and  do  so  before  you  go  back,  and  then 
apologize  to  Miss  Henderson  as  I  told  you." 

Ann  made  her  curtsey  and  marched  out  of  the  room 
again,  very  stiff  and  offended.  She  told  Gertrude 
Pilcher  that  she  could  brush  herself  and  wash  her  hands 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  o05 

without  her  assistance,  and  insisted  upon  her  going  back 
to  the  classroom.  When  she  was  alone  in  the  cloak 
room  she  shed  a  few  angry  tears,  but  dried  them  imme- 
diately for  fear  of  their  traces  showing.  She  was  mis- 
understood, her  sense  of  honour  repudiated  and  scorned. 
Miss  Sutor  was  as  bad  as  Miss  Henderson.  She  would 
be  coldly  polite  to  her  in  the  future,  but  would  show 
her  plainly  that  she  did  not  consider  her  a  fit  person 
to  associate  with  except  on  official  terms. 

But  Miss  Sutor  had  already  realized  that  she  had 
made  a  mistake,  and  came  into  the  cloak  room  to  put  it 
right.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  say  just  now  that  you 
ought  to  have  done  what  Miss  Henderson  told  you  not 
to,  Ann,"  she  said,  "  though  I'm  afraid  that  is  exactly 
what  I  did  say.  As  for  sending  somebody  with  you, 
I  don't  think  she  thought  at  all  that  }7ou  would  be  likely 
to  do  anything  dishonourable;  but  you  are  so  often  dis- 
obedient, you  know,  that  she  might  very  well  think  you 
wouldn't  do  exactly  as  you  were  told.  You  are  not  to 
make  a  grievance  of  that,  and  don't  let  me  have  you  re- 
porting yourself  for  misbehaviour  any  more.  It  has 
happened  four  times  already  this  term,  and  I  have 
had  to  talk  to  you  more  than  to  any  other  girl, 
though  you  have  been  here  a  shorter  time  than  any  of 
them." 

This  put  matters  a  little  more  right,  though  not  en- 
tirely so.  Ann  did  feel  that  a  slur  had  been  cast  upon 
her  honour  by  Miss  Henderson,  though  her  child's  clean 
sense  of  justice  allowed  its  weight  to  Miss  Sutor's  way 
of  looking  at  it.  But  she  did  not  consider  that  it  need 
prevent  her  adding  to  her  apology:  "I  would  have 
gone  directly  to  Miss  Sutor  if  you  hadn't  sent  Gertrude 
Pilcher  with  me." 

Miss  Henderson  did  better  than  Miss  Sutor,  by  re- 


206         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

plying:  "  Very  well,  Ann;  another  time  I  shall  not 
send  any  one  with  you.  But  I  sincerely  hope  there  will 
not  be  another  time." 

Rut  unfortunately  there  was, —  no  later  than  the  fol- 
lowing week,  and  it  was  again  Miss  Henderson  who  sent 
her  to  report  herself. 

The  mistresses'  table  was  on  a  dais,  and  Ann's  desk 
was  in  the  first  row.  As  Ann  was  busy  with  all  the  rest 
doing  sums,  and  a  deep  silence  brooded  over  the  room, 
Hilda  Lang,  whose  disk  was  next  to  hers,  nudged  her 
and  directed  her  attention  to  Miss  Henderson's  feet. 

They  were  rather  large,  and  her  shoes  were  roomy 
but  not  elegant.  She  would  have  gained  no  admiration 
from  the  mid-Victorian  novelists,  who  went  into  rap- 
tures about  a  neat  little  ankle;  and  what  could  be  seen 
of  her  stockings  was  slightly  rucked.  But  it  was  not 
these  deficiencies  to  which  Hilda  had  called  attention. 
Miss  Henderson's  feet  were  turned  in  at  an  angle  of 
about  thirty  degrees,  with  the  toes  at  the  apex,  and  the 
contrast  between  what  could  be  seen  under  the  table 
with  the  stiff  figure  and  severe  face  above  it  was  too 
much  for  Ann's  equanimity.  She  shook  with  laughter, 
which  soon  became  audible.  Hilda  also  laughed,  but 
with  more  self-control,  and  when  Miss  Henderson,  roused 
by  the  sounds,  laid  down  her  book  and  looked  severely 
to  where  the  laughter  was  coming  from,  Hilda's  face 
was  quite  solemn,  while  all  that  could  be  seen  of  Ann 
was  a  shock  of  brown  hair  bent  over  the  desk,  and  a 
pair  of  thin  shaking  shoulders. 

"  You  seem  to  be  highly  amused  at  something,  Ann," 
said  Miss  Henderson.  "  It  seems  a  pity  to  keep  it  to 
yourself.      Please  stand  up  and  tell  us  the  joke." 

Ann  lifted  her  head.  Miss  Henderson  had  shifted 
the  position  of  her  feet;  so  she  was  enabled  to  reply. 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  207 

with  a  fairly  successful  effort  at  gravity :  "  I'm  very 
sorry,  Miss  Henderson.     I  won't  laugh  again." 

But  unfortunately,  as  she  dropped  her  eyes,  there 
was  a  slight  movement  of  Miss  Henderson's  feet.  They 
did  not  return  to  their  former  ludicrous  position,  but 
the  possibility  of  their  doing  so  was  enough  to  shake 
Ann  with  another  chuckle. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go  and  stand  in  that  un- 
occupied corner  until  you  have  collected  yourself  suf- 
ficiently to  tell  us  what  it  is  all  about,"  said  Miss  Hen- 
derson. 

Ann  went  at  once  to  the  corner.  It  was  a  position 
of  extreme  disgrace,  but  she  was  relieved  at  not  being 
made  to  disclose  the  cause  of  her  merriment  then  and 
there.  Her  feelings  were  too  nice  to  allow  of  her  gain- 
ing satisfaction  from  bringing  confusion  to  Miss  Hen- 
derson, and  she  was  intent  on  finding  a  way  out  of  the 
difficulty  without  a  sacrifice  of  truth. 

But  presently,  the  humiliation  of  being  put  to  stand 
in  a  corner,  like  a  baby,  began  to  work  on  her.  She 
would  not  actually  face  the  corner,  and  the  girls  who 
threw  surreptitious  glances  at  her  saw  her  face  gradu- 
ally darken,  while  the  blush  that  showed  so  readily  on 
her  fair  skin  dyed  it  from  temples  to  neck. 

If  Miss  Henderson  could  put  this  gross  indignity 
upon  her,  there  seemed  no  reason  to  spare  her.  It  was 
not  long  before  Ann  walked  back  to  her  desk  and  said : 
"  I  am  ready  to  tell  you  what  I  was  laughing  at,  Miss 
Henderson." 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  to  leave  the  corner,"  said  Miss 
Henderson.  "  Go  back  there  and  tell  us  the  joke.  I 
have  no  doubt  it  will  amuse  us  all  immensely." 

Ann  did  not  mind  the  corner  as  long  as  she  was  not 
expected  to   face   it.     "  I  was   laughing   at  your   feet 


208         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

under  the  table,"  she  said,  with  an  expression  which 
indicated  that  whatever  amusement  she  had  gained 
from  the  exhibition  had  by  this  time  evaporated. 

Miss  Henderson's  blushes  did  not  come  as  readily  as 
Ann's,  but  she  blushed  now.  "  You  are  a  very  rude  and 
impertinent  girl,"  she  said.  "  Sit  down  and  go  on  with 
your  work,  and  go  and  report  yourself  to  Miss  Sutor 
immediately  after  lesson." 

Hilda  Lang  broke  the  pause  of  consternation. 
"  Please,  Miss  Henderson,  it  was  I  who  made  her  laugh," 
she  said. 

Miss  Henderson  did  not  want  any  further  attention 
drawn  to  the  origin  of  Ann's  laughter,  and  said :  "  She 
has  already  told  us  why  she  laughed.  Go  on  with  your 
work." 

When  calm  was  restored,  Ann  pressed  Hilda's  hand 
under  the  desk.  It  was  a  great  thing  to  have  a  friend 
so  ready  to  stand  by  you.  She  would  do  the  same  by 
Hilda,  if  occasion  should  ever  offer.  The  thought  that 
she  had  begun  to  grow  ever  so  little  tired  of  having 
Hilda  as  her  chief  friend  brought  her  compunction,  and 
distracted  her  mind  from  the  ordeal  before  her. 

The  ordeal  was  rather  a  serious  one.  Ann  recounted 
the  episode  with  conscientious  thoroughness,  only  leav- 
ing out  the  fact  that  it  was  Hilda  Lang  who  had  ini- 
tiated it.  "  I  couldn't  help  laughing,"  she  said,  "  be- 
cause it  looked  so  funny ;  but  I  didn't  want  Miss  Hender- 
son to  know  why  I  was  laughing,  and  if  she  hadn't  made 
me  stand  up  in  the  corner,  I  should  have  tried  not  to 
tell  her." 

"  That  means  that  you  lost  your  temper  and  were 
rude,"  said  Miss  Sutor,  " —  and  rude  in  a  way  that  I  will 
not  permit  girls  to  be  in  my  school.  I'm  afraid  that  you 
are  becoming  a  thoroughly  troublesome  child,  Ann.     I 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  209 

talked  to  you  only  a  few  days  ago,  and  yet  here  you  are 
again !  Now  I  am  going  to  say  this  to  you:  —  I  have 
never  cared  to  have  day-pupils  here,  and  I  have  made 
very  few  exceptions  to  that  rule.  I  took  you  because  I 
have  known  your  grandmother  for  many  years  and  have 
the  highest  respect  for  her.  But  if  you  are  going  to 
misbehave  yourself  constantly,  and  upset  the  whole 
school  in  the  way  you  do,  I  shall  have  to  ask  her  to  send 
you  somewhere  else,  and  tell  her  very  plainly  why." 

This  was  much  worse  than  anything  that  Ann  had 
anticipated.  She  turned  a  white  face  upon  Miss  Sutor, 
and  said:  "Oh,  please  don't  tell  Granny.  I  will 
promise  faithfully  to  be  good  if  you  won't." 

Miss  Sutor  was  rather  disconcerted  by  her  sudden 
pallor,  which  came  as  readily  to  her  face  as  the  blushes, 
and  a  little  touched  by  her  cry  of  distress.  Ann  was 
such  a  child  in  some  ways,  though  advanced  in  others. 
But  she  took  advantage  of  the  impression  she  had  cre- 
ated. "  I  shall  not  do  so  unless  I  am  obliged,"  she 
said,  "  but  if  you  are  told  to  report  yourself  to  me  any 
more,  I  shall  certainly  speak  to  Lady  Sinclair  about 
you.  It  will  rest  entirely  with  yourself;  so  you  had 
better  make  up  your  mind  to  behave  properly  for  the 
rest  of  the  term.  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  speak  to 
you  without  taking  further  steps.  You  will  apologize 
to  Miss  Henderson  for  your  rudeness.  There  is  no 
regular  system  of  punishment  here:  I  pride  myself 
upon  having  girls  who  do  not  need  it.  But  I  cannot 
overlook  your  continual  naughtiness.  I  shall  not  allow 
any  one  to  come  to  tea  with  you  next  Saturday." 

Ann  hung  her  head.  If  she  did  not  have  any  one 
to  tea  with  her,  Granny  would  have  to  know  it,  and  she 
would  ask  why.  She  was  just  about  to  put  in  a  plea  for 
another  form  of  punishment,  when  she  remembered  that 


210         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

she  was  probably  to  be  taken  up  to  London  on  the  next 
Saturday,  and  so  Granny  need  know  nothing  about  it. 

The  thought  brought  immense  relief,  but  only  for  a 
moment.  Her  code  forbade  her  to  take  advantage  of 
the  accident. 

"  Now  go,"  said  Miss  Sutor. 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  ask  anybody  to  tea  next  Satur- 
day," said  Ann.  "  I  think  I  am  going  on  a  visit  to 
London." 

Miss  Sutor  threw  a  glance  at  her.  Her  face  had  re- 
covered its  normal  hue,  but  she  looked  very  unhappy. 
"  Well,  as  you  have  told  me  that,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
don't  want  3'our  grandmother  to  know  about  my  having 
to  punish  you,  I  will  let  you  off  this  time.  Now  go  to 
Miss  Henderson." 

Ann  was  very  subdued  as  she  went  back  to  the  class- 
room, where  Miss  Henderson  was  correcting  exercises. 
She  felt  that  she  had  had  a  narrow  escape,  and  must 
really  be  considerably  naughtier  by  nature  than  she  had 
any  conscious  inclination  to  be,  since  her  naughtiness 
might  bring  her  into  such  dreadful  disgrace  if  it  were 
not  amended.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  it  should  be. 
She  could  have  heaps  of  fun  at  school  without  playing 
silly  pranks,  and  if  she  felt  over-inclined  to  break  the 
bounds  of  careful  behaviour  she  could  always  do  so  at 
home  with  Lizzie,  who  would  threaten  to  tell  Granny, 
but  would  never  do  so. 

Her  apology  to  Miss  Henderson  was  so  evidently  sin- 
cere that  that  lady  had  no  difficulty  in  accepting  it. 
"  I'm  afraid  I  did  lose  my  temper  at  being  put  into  the 
corner,"  said  Ann,  "  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  that.  I 
know  I  have  a  hasty  temper.  I  truly  do  try  to  control 
it,  Miss  Henderson,  but  it  is  very  difficult,  and  I  don't 
always  arrive.     This  time,  it  made  me  say  something 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  211 

I  didn't  want  to  say  at  all.  You  understand,  it  wasn't 
truly  you  I  was  laughing  at." 

"  I  thought  you  said  it  was,"  said  Miss  Henderson 
drily. 

"  No.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  show  you  what  it 
looks  like  from  my  desk  to  see  somebody  sitting  at  your 
table  turning  their  toes  —  er  —  rather  inside.  I  think 
you  would  see  at  once  that  one  might  laugh  without  even 
thinking  whose  toes  they  were." 

Miss  Henderson  was  not  without  a  sense  of  humour, 
and  had  a  considerably  warmer  liking  for  Ann  than  Ann 
had  any  idea  of.  "  Very  well,"  she  said.  "  You  shall 
give  me  an  exhibition  of  what  I  looked  like." 

She  took  her  seat  at  Ann's  desk,  and  Ann  hers  at  the 
table.  "  Of  course  I  shan't  be  trying  to  imitate  you 
in  particular,"  Ann  explained,  somewhat  anxiously. 
"  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  think  that  of  me.  As  I  made 
you  remark,  it  might  be  anybody." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Miss  Henderson. 

"  I  am  forced  to  take  up  a  book,  just  to  show  that 
looking  serious  on  the  top  makes  a  difference." 

«  Very  well." 

Ann  sat  very  stiff  and  upright  in  Miss  Henderson's 
chair,  and  arranged  her  feet  at  an  angle  not  too  ex- 
travagantly obtuse,  out  of  consideration  for  Miss  Hen- 
derson's feelings.  Her  slim  black-stockinged  legs  and 
her  neat  little  house-shoes  bore  no  remarkable  resem- 
blance to  anything  that  Miss  Henderson  had  unwittingly 
displayed,  but  there  was  something  very  funny  about 
the  severe  air  with  which  she  regarded  the  book  in  front 
of  her,  while  she  managed  to  convey  into  her  attitude 
a  sort  of  apology  for  anything  in  it  that  might  appear 
to  be  a  caricature  of  Miss  Henderson. 

Miss    Henderson,    sitting    at    Ann's    desk,    laughed 


212  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

spontaneously.  "  Yes,  I  quite  see  now,"  she  said.  "  As 
you  say,  anybody  might  sit  like  that,  but  /  ought  not 
to,  as  I  am  always  telling  girls  to  hold  themselves  prop- 
erly " —  Miss  Henderson  was  gym  mistress  — "  and  now 
that  I  have  seen  what  it  looks  like  I  shall  endeavour  not 
to  do  it  again.  I  should  not  have  told  you  to  stand  in 
the  corner,  Ann,  if  I  had  known  what  excuse  there  was 
for  you." 

So  Ann  got  over  that  little  trouble,  and  made  up  her 
mind  that  the  rest  of  the  term  should  find  her  blame- 
less. 


The  term  neared  its  end ;  so  did  Mary  Polegate's  il- 
luminated list  of  the  Kings  of  Juda  and  Israel,  to  which 
we  shall  come  in  a  moment.  Miss  Sutor's  birthday 
would  fall  in  the  last  week  but  one,  and  it  was  always 
made  a  great  occasion  of.  Besides  the  offering  the 
girls  would  subscribe  for  and  present  to  her  in  the 
morning,  there  was  to  be  a  concert  in  the  evening,  with 
a  supper  afterwards.  The  girls  were  to  provide  the 
supper,  and  Miss  Sutor  was  to  be  their  guest.  The 
arrangements  gave  them  a  great  deal  to  talk  about  dur- 
ing the  latter  part  of  the  term,  and  Ann  was  as  inter- 
ested as  anybody. 

Ann  was  to  play  two  pieces  in  the  concert.  Other 
girls  played  the  violin,  but  none  of  them  as  well  as  she 
did.  The  old  French  chef  d'orehestre  who  was  spend- 
ing the  evening  of  his  life  with  his  English-married 
daughter,  and  taught  at  Miss  Sutor's  school  chiefly  to 
give  himself  some  occupation,  had  opened  his  eyes  when 
he  had  first  heard  Ann  play.  But  he  had  been  more 
severe  with  her  than  with  his  other  more  ordinary  pu- 
pils, and  had  hardly  ever  given  her  any  praise.     Ann 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  213 

thought  him  a  horrid  old  creature,  but  worked  hard  to 
satisfy  him,  and  there  were  times  when  she  played  to 
him  in  such  a  way  that  he  had  hard  work  to  hold  himself 
back  from  showing  his  pleasure  by  an  ecstatic  embrace, 
which  would  have  surprised  Ann  intensely  and  offended 
her  not  a  little. 

As  this  was  to  be  a  very  special  concert,  it  was  agreed 
by  the  girls  that  the  respective  music  masters  and  mis- 
tresses should  nominate  the  performers ;  then  no  one 
could  be  offended  at  being  left  out.  M.  Lanson  put 
down  Edith  Mackenzie,  a  competent  performer,  for  one 
piece,  and  Ann  for  two,  leaving  the  others  out  alto- 
gether. As  three  of  the  rejected  were  "  big  girls,"  there 
was  some  little  feeling  about  this ;  but  it  had  been  agreed 
that  there  was  to  be  no  jealousy  over  the  decisions,  and 
Ann  was  really  so  very  nice  about  it,  even  to  the  extent 
of  braving  the  autocrat's  wrath  and  suggesting  that 
one  of  her  pieces  should  be  replaced  by  another  per- 
former's, that  although  her  proposal  was  rejected  with 
sarcastic  ignominy,  no  blame  could  attach  to  her  for 
being  singled  out  in  a  way  that  no  other  girl  in  the 
school  was. 

Things  were  going  extremely  well  for  Ann.  She  was 
behaving  herself  with  such  perfect  propriety  during 
school  hours  that  the  shadow  of  her  former  misde- 
meanours was  fast  lifting  from  her,  and  Miss  Sutor 
had  once  or  twice  shown  her,  in  some  indefinable  way 
she  had  at  command,  that  she  was  pleased  with  her. 
Ann  had  never  liked  Miss  Sutor  very  much.  She 
thought  she  had  been  a  little  unfair  to  her  in  both  her 
recent  "  talkings  to."  Miss  Henderson,  whom  it  was 
not  the  fashion  to  like  as  much  as  Miss  Sutor,  had  really 
understood  her  better  on  both  occasions,  although  she 
had  been  the  offended  party.     But  now  she  felt  that  any 


214         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

slight  coldness  there  might  have  been  between  Miss 
Sutor  and  herself  had  entirely  melted  away.  She  was 
caught  in  the  fervour  of  appreciation  that  Miss  Sutor's 
approaching  birthday  had  aroused  towards  her,  and  was 
as  anxious  as  anybody  to  show  it,  by  helping  to  arrange 
the  series  of  pleasant  surprises  that  filled  the  minds 
of  the  whole  school. 

But  although  Ann's  behaviour  in  school  removed  her 
far  from  the  possibility  of  official  rebuke,  she  showed  a 
slight  tendency  to  revert  to  her  earl}  habit  of  "  cheek- 
ing "  the  older  girls.  It  was  no  more  than  kittenish 
playfulness,  induced  by  the  high  spirits  which  her  un- 
spotted conscience  encouraged  in  her,  and  in  most 
schools  would  have  been  considered  quite  harmless,  if 
not  rather  agreeable  from  a  child  of  such  gaiety  and 
humour  as  Ann,  who  in  her  most  audacious  moods  never 
did  or  said  anything  that  could  hurt  any  one's  feelings. 
But  the  tradition  of  patronage  on  the  one  side  and 
dependence  on  the  other  existed  in  Miss  Sutor's  school, 
and  Ann's  fault  wTas  that  she  did  not  observe  it. 

Mary  Polegate  had  arrived,  by  unremitting  pains  and 
a  considerable  expenditure  of  the  best  illuminating 
colours,  at  King  Pekahiah.  The  border  round  the  chart 
was  already  finished,  and  she  only  had  to  add  the  names 
of  the  remaining  kings  before  the  whole  work  of  art 
would  be  ready  as  a  supplementary  birthday  present  to 
Miss  Sutor,  from  one  of  her  most  exemplary  pupils. 
The  performance,  it  must  be  admitted,  was  not  up  to 
the  desire  of  the  performer,  but  Mary  Polegate  had  no 
idea  of  any  deficiencies  in  it,  and  would  frequently  put 
her  head  on  one  side  to  regard  her  handiwork  with  a  look 
of  such  bland  satisfaction  that  nobody  would  have  had 
the  heart  to  undeceive  her. 

Ann  would  certainly  have  been  the  last  to  do  so,  but 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  215 

she  fell  into  the  way  of  teasing  her  as  the  work  neared 
its  completion,  and  urging  her  to  be  extremely  careful 
that  no  mistakes  crept  into  it  at  the  last  moment. 

"  What  should  you  do  if  you  found  you  had  illumin- 
ated Manasseh  with  two  n's  instead  of  one?  "  "  What 
should  you  do  if  you  had  employed  all  your  gold,  and 
had  no  money  to  buy  any  more?  "  "  Why  didn't  you 
finish  the  names  before  you  began  the  border?  I'm 
afraid  these  names  began  to  tap  upon  your  system, 
and  to  say  true  they  do  look  rather  silly.  Fancy  chris- 
tening a  baby  Pekahiah!  I  suppose  he  had  to  be  a 
baby  once." 

These  were  a  few  of  Ann's  irritating  remarks,  which 
Mary  Polegate  received  patiently  enough,  except  when 
they  seemed  to  be  bordering  on  the  profane,  like  the 
last  one,  when  she  would  rebuke  Ann,  and  remind  her 
gently  that  what  she  was  doing  was  taken  from  the 
Bible.  She  only  expressed  herself  more  strongly  when 
Ann  asked  her :  "  What  should  you  do  if  I  were  to 
upset  a  drop  of  ink  in  the  middle  of  it?"  Then  she 
said  warmly :  "  If  you  were  to  do  a  thing  like  that, 
Ann,  I  should  think  you  were  not  only  troublesome  but 
really  wicked.  I  wish  you  would  go  away  and  leave  me 
alone.  It  is  no  pleasure  to  me  to  have  you  looking  on, 
as  you  can  only  make  silly  remarks." 

The  next  day,  Ann  was  taken  aside  by  Hilda  Strang- 
ways,  who  told  her  that  she  knew  she  didn't  mean  to  be 
unkind  and  it  was  only  in  fun,  but  she  was  spoiling  some 
of  Mary's  pleasure  in  the  work  that  she  had  taken  so 
long  to  do,  and  it  would  be  kinder  if  she  were  not  to 
tease  her  any  more. 

Hilda  Strangways  was  a  bright  pretty  girl  of  seven- 
teen, for  whom  Ann  had  come  to  cherish  a  "  secret 
pash,"  although  she  had  not  even  admitted  it  to  the 


216         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

other  Hilda,  of  whom  once  more  she  was  getting  rather 
tired  as  a  chief  friend.  Hilda  Lang  was  merry  and 
volatile;  Hilda  Strangways  was  merry  in  a  way  that 
seemed  to  Ann  much  more  admirable,  for  she  could 
be  sensible  too,  and  could  laugh  and  joke  with  younger 
gills  than  herself,  without  the  patronage  that  usually 
went  along  with  such  unbending.  Ann  would  have 
given  a  good  deal  to  ask  her  to  tea,  but  she  knew  that  if 
she  did  so  she  would  be  accused  of  making  up  to  her, 
and  her  reputation  for  independence  would  be  gone. 

Ann  was  secretly  enchanted  at  beinfj  appealed  to  in 
this  way,  and  was  quite  prepared  to  give  up  from  that 
moment  all  teasing  of  Mary  Polegate.  But  the  terms 
she  had  laid  down  for  herself  for  her  intercourse  with 
Hilda  Strangways  were  such  that  she  must  discuss  the 
matter  with  her  as  an  equal,  and  not  appear,  even  with 
her,  to  be  giving  obedience.  This  was  Ann's  pride,  and 
she  had  reason  to  regret  it  afterwards,  especially  as  it 
would  have  been  grateful  to  her  feelings  to  give  in  at 
once  to  Hilda,  who  had  spoken  to  her  so  nicely. 

"  It's  all  so  silly,"  she  said.  "  As  if  Miss  Sutor 
wanted  a  thing  like  that!  I  think  it  does  her  good  to 
be  teased  about  it." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  rather  silly,"  said  the  older  girl. 
"  But  we  don't  want  Mary  to  know  that  anybody  thinks 
so,  do  we?  Of  course  I  know  you  wouldn't  really  spill 
ink  over  it,  or  do  anything  to  spoil  it,  but  I  think  she's 
rather  afraid  that  you  might,  after  what  you  said  yes- 
terday. So  just  promise  me  that  you  won't,  and  I'll 
tell  her." 

It  must  have  been  some  perversity  that  caused  Ann 
to  reply :  "  I  can't  promise  that,  because  I  might  want 
to  ";  for  she  was  ready  to  agree  to  anything,  now  that 
she  had  exercised  her  complete  independence  of  attitude. 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  217 

She  would  have  laughed  and  given  the  promise  in  the 
next  breath,  but  Hilda  said:  "  I  don't  think  it's  much 
for  one  friend  to  ask  of  another,  Ann ;  but  if  you  won't, 
you  won't.  I'm  sorry  I  said  anything  to  you  about  it." 
Then  she  left  her. 

Ann  was  inclined  to  call  after  her  with  a  complete 
capitulation,  but  partly  her  pride  prevented  her,  and 
partly  it  caused  her  a  half  sweet,  half  painful  thrill  to 
have  a  misunderstanding  with  Hilda  that  could  be 
cleared  up  at  any  moment  she  wished. 

Her  nature  was  too  direct  to  allow  her  to  take  pleas- 
ure in  such  a  feeling  for  long,  and  she  made  tentative 
advances  to  Hilda  with  a  view  of  putting  things  right. 
But  Hilda  was  offended  with  her,  and  when  the  advances 
were  received  coldly,  she  did  not  persist  in  them, 
spirit  of  perversity  seized  her  again,  and  she  tease 
Mar}'  Polegate  about  her  illuminated  chart  of  the  kings 
of  Juda  and  Israel  persistently,  and  in  Hilda's  hearing. 
After  that,  of  course,  Hilda  would  take  no  more  notice 
of  her,  and  Ann  felt  very  miserable,  but  went  on  with 
the  teasing  the  next  morning. 

When  she  and  the  other  Hilda  walked  home  from 
morning  school  —  this  was  on  Friday  —  she  covered 
Mary  Polegate's  efforts  with  still  further  ridicule,  and 
the  other  Hilda  followed  her  lead  and  said  that  she 
wished  Ann  would  drop  some  ink  on  the  silly  old  chart, 
and  put  an  end  to  it  once  for  all.  Ann  said  she  had 
a  good  mind  to  do  so,  if  only  to  show  Hilda  Strang- 
ways that  she  was  not  going  to  be  ordered  about  by 
the  older  girls.  She  felt  a  sharp  pang  as  she  said  this. 
If  Hilda  Strangways  had  been  walking  with  her  at  that 
moment  instead  of  Hilda  Lang,  she  would  have  recanted 
the  speech  instantly  and  all  that  led  up  to  it.  But 
Hilda  Strangways  was  not  there,  and  so  strange  are 


218         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

the  ways  of  humankind  that,  although  Ann  refrained 
that  afternoon  from  goading  the  meek  Mary  I'olegate 
any  further,  she  would  not  take  the  definite  steps  that 
would  have  ended  the  affair  altogether. 

There  were  opportunities  for  doing  so,  for  she  and 
Hilda  Lang  stayed  to  tea  at  the  school,  and  there  were 
leisure  times,  as  well  as  work  to  be  done.  She  did  just 
once  put  herself  in  Hilda  Strangways'  path,  and  gave 
her  a  look  that  meant:  "I'm  sorry."  ISu  Hilda 
seemed  not  to  notice  it,  and  the  opportunity  for  recon- 
ciliation passed. 

VI 

When  Ann  and  Hilda  Lang  left  the  school,  Hilda 
was  bubbling  over  with  foolish  excitement,  and  made  a 
mystery  of  the  cause.  Ann  was  far  too  unhappy  to 
fall  in  with  this  mood,  and  said  testily:  "Oh,  do  say 
what  you  are  giggling  about,  and  don't  go  on  like 
that."' 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Hilda,  "  it's  such  fun !  You 
know  Mary  Polegate  hasn't  quite  finished  the  names 
of  her  kings.  Well,  when  you  were  all  sewing  I  got 
hold  of  her  old  chart,  and  put  William  the  Conqueror 
and  William  Rufus  in  two  of  the  places  she  had  left." 

Ann  stopped  short  on  the  pavement.  Her  face  was 
quite  white.      "  You  didn't!  "  she  exclaimed. 

Hilda  was  slightly  sobered  by  her*  look.  "  Only  in 
pencil,"  she  said.     "  She  can  rub  it  out  again." 

"  Then  I  think  you're  the  biggest  beast  I  ever  saw," 
said  Ann  with  angry  vehemence.  "  How  dare  you  do 
a  thing  like  that?  " 

There  followed  a  considerable  commotion.  They  had 
come  out  from  the  quiet  road  in  which  "  The  Cedars  " 
was  situated,  and  there  were  people  within  sight  and 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  219 

hearing  of  them.  Lizzie  was  scandalized  at  the  idea 
of  a  disturbance  in  so  public  a  place,  and  adjured  Ann 
by  threats  of  telling  her  ladyship  for  goodness'  sake  to 
be'ave  herself. 

Ann  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  stood  where  she  was, 
and  abused  Hilda  in  no  measured  terms,  using  French 
in  the  higher  flights,  but  making  very  good  practice  with 
English  too.  Hilda,  greatly  upset  by  this  turning  on 
her  on  the  part  of  her  best  friend,  defended  herself  al- 
most as  vehemently.  At  last,  when  a  boy  with  a  basket 
stopped  to  listen  and  to  laugh  at  them,  Ann  was  brought 
to  her  senses  and  walked  on,  the  others  with  her. 

"  Reely  !  "  exclaimed  the  outraged  Lizzie.  "  I  shall 
tell  her  ladyship  this  time,  Miss  Ann,  and  you  won't 
persuade  me  not  to.  Such  disgraceful  be'aviour  on  the 
part  of  a  young  lady  I  never  — " 

"  Fiche  moi  la  paix!  "  Ann  snapped  at  her.  "  I'll 
occupy  myself  with  you  afterwards.     Walk  behind  us." 

Lizzie,  strong  in  her  position  of  right,  refused  to  do 
this,  but  subsided  into  scandalized  silence,  broken  by 
occasional  expostulations,  of  which  Ann  took  no  further 
notice. 

"  It  isn't  half  as  bad  as  spilling  ink  on  her  chart," 
complained  Hilda,  "  and  you  said  only  this  morning  that 
you  would  do  that." 

"  Becasse!  "  said  Ann.  "  Of  course  I  didn't  mean 
it.  Only  a  fool  would  have  thought  I  did.  I  think  her 
chart  is  silly,  and  she's  silly,  and  fatiguing  about  it. 
But  it's  a  shame  to  spoil  it,  when  she's  so  proud  of  it  and 
has  worked  at  it  for  so  long.  I  say  it's  a  beastly  thing 
to  do."  (Expostulations  from  Lizzie.)  "  I'm  ashamed 
for  you,  Hilda  Lang,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  for 
yourself." 

"  You're  just  as  bad  as  I  am,"  said  Hilda.     "  I  don't 


220  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

believe  you  wouldn't  have  done  something  to  it  if  I 
hadn't.  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  now  as  if  you  were 
a  saint  on  earth." 

The  quarrel  raged  hotly  again.  Lizzie  said  that  if 
they  didn't  stop  it  instantly  she  should  tell  her  ladyship 
the  very  moment  they  got  home. 

Presently  they  became  quieter.  "  The  girls  will  send 
you  to  Coventry  when  they  find  it  out,"  said  Ann. 

Hilda  blenched.  She  now  wished  very  much  that  she 
had  not  been  so  thoughtless,  although  she  had  hotly 
repudiated  all  Ann's  charges.  "  She  can  quite  easily 
rub  it  out,"  she  said.     "  And  I  shall  say  I'm  sorry." 

"  So  you  ought  to  be,"  said  Ann. 

Slight  recrudescence  of  recrimination,  and  statement 
from  Lizzie  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  and 
tell  her  ladyship  this  time  she  should. 

"  If  they  do  send  me  to  Coventry,"  said  Hilda,  who 
while  putting  up  a  stout  fight  had  gradually  been 
brought  under,  "  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  speak  to  me 
either." 

"  As  we  have  been  friends,"  said  Ann  with  emphasis, 
"  I  should  naturally  go  to  Coventry  with  you.  But  all 
the  same  I  should  blame  you  just  as  much  as  the  others." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  should  never  have  done  it  except  for 
what  you  said." 

Ann  felt  this  to  be  true.  "  Perhaps  I  should  merit  it 
as  much  as  you,"  she  said,  "  especially  as  you're  so 
feeble  that  if  I  were  to  put  any  silliness  into  your  head 
you  would  go  and  do  it,  and  I  ought  to  have  known 
that." 

Expiring  flickers  of  the  quarrel,  and  final  statement 
from  Lizzie  that  Miss  Ann  had  brought  it  on  herself, 
now,  and  told  her  ladyship  should  be. 

But   by    this    time    consequences    were    beginning   to 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  221 

weigh  too  heavily  on  both  girls  to  admit  of  any  satisfac- 
tion from  mere  recrimination.  It  may  be  allowed  to 
speak  well  for  Ann  that  hitherto  she  had  felt  -Hiing 
but  indignation  for  the  baseness  of  Hilda's  ciccd.  She 
felt  as  sorry  for  Mary  Polegate  as  if  she  were  one  of 
that  meek  character's  warmest  admirers  and  had  never 
teased  her  on  her  own  account.  But  now  the  conse- 
quences as  they  would  affect  herself  began  to  obtrude 
themselves  upon  her  notice,  and  they  were  seen  to  be  as 
serious  as  possible. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  she  had  taken  a  very 
strained  leave  of  Hilda,  and  had  turned  her  attention 
to  Lizzie,  so  far  as  to  relieve  herself  of  the  embarrass- 
ment of  having  anything  said  to  her  grandmother  about 
the  late  occurrences,  that  her  mind  was  at  liberty  to 
take  in  all  the  probabilities  of  the  situation. 

Hilda  would  confess  and  express  contrition,  but  not 
until  Monday  morning,  and  from  the  moment  her  un- 
warranted addition  to  the  chart  was  discovered  —  it 
was  almost  certainly  known  to  the  whole  school  already 
—  Ann  would  be  under  conviction  of  at  least  sympa- 
thizing, if  not  of  aiding  and  abetting  her. 

As  she  was  dressing  to  go  down  to  dessert  with  her 
grandmother, —  Lizzie,  who  was  helping  her,  having 
been  ordered  to  keep  silence,  so  that  she  might  occupy 
herself  with  her  thoughts  —  a  still  more  awful  consid- 
eration occurred  to  her,  and  sent  the  blood  rushing  from 
her  face,  so  that  she  became  first  as  red  as  Mary  Pole- 
gate's  Vermillion,  and  then  as  white  as  the  paper  to 
which  it  was  applied. 

Until  Hilda  confessed  on  Monday  morning,  it  would 
be  thought  that  Ann  had  done  the  deed  herself. 


222         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

VII 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  this.  Ann  wondered 
that  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  before.  Hilda  had  taken 
a  very  small  part  in  teasing  Mary  Polegate  compared 
with  hers,  and  the  few  things  she  had  said  had  been  so 
imitative  of  Ann,  whom  she  had  always  followed,  that 
it  would  occur  to  nobody  that  she  had  for  once  initiated 
something  of  her  own. 

It  would  not  have  been  so  bad  if  there  were  going  to 
be  the  usual  tea  party  on  Saturday  afternoon.  Hilda 
would  have  come  to  it,  and  the  other  girls  who  would 
also  have  come  would  have  taken  back  to  school  the 
true  account  of  what  had  happened.  But  a  party  of 
relations  was  coming  down  to  see  Granny  on  Saturday 
morning,  and  were  going  to  stay  until  Sunday  after- 
noon. Ann's  guests  had  been  put  off  until  the  follow- 
ing Saturday,  which  would  also  be  the  occasion  of  Miss 
Sutor's  birthday  concert  and  supper. 

Ann  thought  of  going  to  see  Hilda  the  next  morning, 
and  asking  her  to  put  matters  right  before  going  back 
to  school  on  Monday.  But  the  terms  on  which  they  had 
parted  had  made  her  unwilling  to  ask  anything  of  her, 
and  besides,  on  thinking  it  over,  her  pride  rose  against 
saying  or  doing  anything  that  would  look  like  shelter- 
ing herself  behind  Hilda.  It  would  be  worse  for  Hilda 
than  it  would  be  for  her  when  the  truth  came  to  be 
known,  and  she  must  take  what  -was  being  said  about 
her  as  a  punishment  for  her  part  in  the  affair,  which  she 
was  quite  ready  to  admit  was  not  small. 

But  it  was  hard  to  bear.  Her  heart  failed  her  when 
she  thought  of  what  Hilda  Strangways  must  be  think- 
ing of  her,  and  must  continue  to  think  for  more  than  two 
whole  days  longer.      She  had  gained  some  consolation 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  223 

during  the  afternoon,  hoping  that  Hilda  would  notice 
that  she  had  left  off  teasing  Mary  Folcgate,  and  might 
even  divine  that  she  was  sorry  for  what  had  gone  be- 
fore. But  now,  of  course,  she  could  only  think  that 
Ann  had  gone  to  all  lengths  to  spite  her;  and  how  she 
must  despise  a  girl  who  could  do  a  thing  like  that,  and 
for  such  a  purpose,  when  she  had  only  given  her  the 
advice  of  a  friend !  "  It's  not  much  for  one  friend  to 
ask  of  another,  Ann,"  she  had  said.  It  was  doubtful 
whether  she  would  ever  look  upon  Ann  as  a  friend  again, 
even  when  she  should  come  to  know  that  she  was  not 
quite  s-o  bad  as  she  now  seemed  to  be. 

The  next  morning  a  bevy  of  aunts  and  uncles  and 
cousins  came  down  in  time  for  luncheon.  Lady  Sin- 
clair liked  to  fill  her  large  house  with  guests  on  occa- 
sions, when  she  felt  well  enough  to  enjoy  their  society .. 
and  to  live  very  quietly  for  the  rest  of  the  time. 

How  Ann  would  have  enjoyed  that  Saturday  and 
Sunday,  if  they  had  only  come  the  week  before !  She 
was  made'  an  immense  deal  of.  She  was  the  only  child 
of  her  generation  among  a  large  number  of  Sinclair 
relations.  All  these  kind,  merry  uncles  and  aunts  and 
cousins  lavished  affection  and  admiration  upon  her. 
The  presents  they  had  brought  down  for  her  would 
have  been  handsome  for  a  birthday  and  Christmas  com- 
bined. The  girl  cousins  vied  for  private  possession 
of  her  at  all  times  of  their  visit;  the  uncles  and  aunts 
affected  to  quarrel  among  themselves  as  to  who  should 
have  her  to  sit  by  them  at  mealtimes ;  they  amused 
themselves  in  no  way  without  reference  to  her;  and  even 
the  uncles  went  to  church  on  Sunday  morning  for  the 
pleasure  of  walking  there  and  back  with  Ann  between 
them,  who  in  a  frock  of  vieux  rose  taffeta,  with  a  hat 
tied  under  her  chin  with  narrow  black  velvet,  and  her 


224  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

thin  legs  encased  in  the  finest  of  silk  stockings,  was  a 
figure  whom  the  smartest  of  men  might  have  been  proud 
to  escort.  She  dined  downstairs  on  Saturday  night  and 
pla}ed  to  them  afterwards,  and  when  she  went  to  bed 
they  talked  about  her  until  they  wont  to  bed  themselves. 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Ann  should 
not  often  forget  her  troubles  in  the  excitement  and 
pleasures  of  those  two  days.  It  was  only  when  she  was 
left  alone  in  bed,  after  both  the  aunts  and  all  the 
cousins  had  stolen  in  for  a  last  look  at  her,  and  been  sur- 
prised to  find  her  still  awake,  that  the  contrast  between 
what  they  thought  of  her  and  what  they  were  thinking 
of  her  at  the  school  came  to  her  so  mournfully. 

She  had  flashes  of  apparently  the  most  light-hearted 
gaiety,  which  enchanted  her  admiring  relations,  but  for 
the  most  part  she  was  quieter  than  her  wont,  and  more 
clinging  in  her  affection  than  they  were  accustomed  to 
find  her.  Her  pretty  girl  cousins  had  always  thought 
her  rather  too  cool  in  her  reception  of  their  petting, 
even  when  she  had  been  much  smaller ;  but  now  she 
seemed  to  like  to  sit  on  their  knees,  although  she  was 
thirteen,  and  snuggle  up  to  them,  without  talking  much, 
and  they  found  her  all  the  more  entrancing,  as  these 
quiet  moods  alternated  with  her  laughter  and  her 
audacious  sallies.  But  Ann,  who  had  always  disdained 
petting,  found  it  comforting  now,  and  was  glad  for  once 
that  people  always  wanted  to  treat  her  as  if  she  were 
much  younger  than  she  was. 

It  would  not  be  petting  that  would  be  offered  to  her 
when  she  went  back  to  school  on  Monday  morning. 

Lady  Sinclair's  seat  in  church  was  rather  in  advance 
of  those  occupied  by  Miss  Sutor's  girls,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  aisle.  If  Ann  and  her  grandmother  arrived 
first  in  church,  there  was  always  a  sense  of  greeting  as 


AUDACIOUS  ANN 

they  passed  the  school  pews,  although  no  eyes  met  and 
no  smiles  passed.  But  this  morning,  as  Ann  and  her 
uncles  walked  up  the  aisle,  it  was  made  evident  that,  al- 
though the  whole  school  was  intensely  aware  of  her 
arrival,  the  current  of  sympathy  was  entirely  cut  off. 

There  was  no  room  for  them  in  Lady  Sinclair's  pew, 
nor  in  the  one  of  which  she  sometimes  made  use  behind 
it,  and  they  came  back  to  one  immediately  in  front  of 
the  school.  As  Ann  passed  into  it  she  was  aware  of  all 
the  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  her,  but  only  sought  those 
of  Hilda  Strangways,  who  was  in  the  front  row.  Her 
own  were  ready  with  a  plea  for  forgiveness  and  a  sus- 
pension of  judgment,  which  she  thought  Hilda  muit 
understand  somehow,  though  by  words  she  could  tell  her 
nothing.  But  Hilda,  out  of  all  the  rows  of  girls,  seemed 
to  be  taking  no  interest  in  Ann's  advent,  nor  even  in  that 
of  her  two  handsome  elderly  uncles.  She  sat  looking 
straight  in  front  of  her,  and  her  face  was  quite  cold. 

Ann's  uncles  occupied  themselves  with  her  during  the 
service  in  a  way  that  was  somewhat  embarrassing.  One 
of  them,  who  was  a  distinguished  general,  offered  to  find 
the  places  in  her  prayerbook  for  her,  and  the  other, 
who  was  known  for  the  vitriolic  quality  of  his  speeches 
in  the  House  of  Lords,  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to 
have  her  hat  off,  and  go  to  sleep  on  his  shoulder  during 
the  sermon.  Both  of  them  looked  down  at  her  fre- 
quently, as  she  stood  or  sat  between  them,  and  bent  to- 
wards her  to  whisper  little  remarks.  She  wished  they 
wouldn't,  but  it  was  some  comfort  too,  with  the  never- 
absent  consciousness  of  all  that  mass  of  disapproval 
behind  her,  to  have  it  made  so  plain  that  there  were 
those  who  appreciated  her,  even  if  they  did  seem  to 
think  that  she  was  an  infant  in  arms. 

She  hung  upon  the  necks  of  her  relations  as  she  bade 


226         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

them  good-bye  at  the  station,  to  which  she  had  been 
allowed  to  go  so  that  they  might  have  her  with  them 
to  the  very  end.  She  knew  that  the  moment  they  had 
departed  black  thoughts  would  settle  on  her,  and  the 
thoughts  were  very  black  when  she  had  waved  them  all 
off,  and  was  driving  back  home,  seated  alone  in  state  in 
the  carriage. 

But  they  were  light  compared  with  those  that  seized 
upon  her  when  she  reached  home,  and  was  told  the  news 
brought  by  Dr.  Lang,  who  had  been  paying  Lady  Sin- 
clair a  visit  in  the  interval. 

Hilda  had  contracted  tonsilitis  the  day  before,  and 
would  not  be  able  to  go  back  to  school  for  at  least  a 
week. 

VIII 

Ann  had  to  be  at  school  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  lessons  began  on  Monday  mornings.  When  she 
arrived,  she  lingered  at  the  door,  to  turn  herself  round 
and  ask  Lizzie  if  she  looked  all  right ;  and  when  Lizzie, 
somewhat  surprised  at  the  question,  gave  her  skirt  a 
twitch  and  answered  in  the  affirmative,  she  still  lingered, 
and  said:  "  Well,  don't  be  late  in  coming  to  fetch  me. 
It's  rather  agreeable  to  have  a  little  walk  by  ourselves 
sometimes,  isn't  it?  " 

Lizzie  went  away,  saying  to  herself  that  really  Miss 
Ann  could  be  very  sweet  when  she  liked,  and  no  wonder 
everybody  took  to  her ;  while  Ann,  with  a  look  at  her 
walking  back  to  the  serenity  of  home,  went  into  the  cloak 
room. 

There  was  a  small  girl  waiting  for  her  therej  who 
said,  as  if  she  were  repeating  a  lesson:  "Ann  Sinclair, 
you  are  to  go  to  the  monitors  in  Room  B  directly  you 
have  taken  your  things  off." 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  227 

"  Quest  ce  que  je  vais  prendre  pour  mon  rhume?  " 
said  Ann,  who  had  discovered  that  it  flustered  small  girls 
to  be  addressed  in  French,  which  they  were  supposed  to 
understand,  and  usually  didn't. 

But  this  one  was  an  exception.  "  It  isn't  about  your 
cold  that  they  want  to  see  you,"  she  said,  and  stood 
ready  to  be  asked  further  questions. 

"  A  la  gare,  a  la  gare!  "  said  Ann,  and  the  small  girl 
marched  off  with  her  nose  in  the  air. 

Ann,  after  making  a  somewhat  more  careful  toilet 
than  was  usual,  or  even  necessary,  followed  her.  She 
looked  in  the  glass,  and  found  herself  paler  than  she 
could  have  wished.  So  she  rubbed  her  cheeks  smartly, 
and  then  went  upstairs  to  Room  B  on  the  first  floor. 

All  the  girls  in  the  school  seemed  to  be  in  the  passages 
or  on  the  stairs,  or  at  the  doors  of  the  class-rooms.  In 
spite  of  the  rubbing,  Ann's  colour  came  and  went  as  she 
passed  them,  but  she  greeted  them  with  smiling  affa- 
bility, and  did  not  appear  to  notice  that  none  of  her 
greetings  were  returned.  She  caught  her  breath  once  as 
she  came  to  the  door,  but  opened  it  and  went  in  without 
hesitation,  and  was  smiling  sweetly  when  she  shut  it  on 
the  other  side,  and  said:  "  Bonjour,  Mesdemoiselles !  " 

The  six  monitors  were  seated  round  the  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  there  was  a  vacant  chair  at  the 
bottom  of  it. 

"  Please  sit  down  there,"  said  Margaret  Parbury. 

"  Thank  you.  How  polite  you  are ! "  said  Ann, 
rather  glad  to  take  the  chair,  as  her  knees  were  trem- 
bling a  little,  quite  against  her  will. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  we  have  sent  for  you 
for,"  said  Margaret  Parbury. 

"  I  can't  think,"  said  Ann  brightly,  "  unless  it  is  to 
tell  me  how  chic  you  thought  my  new  costume  yesterday. 


228         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

One  of  my  parents  sent  it  over  from  Paris.  Didn't  you 
find  that  it  was  tin  pen  In?  " 

Margaret  Parbury  flushed.  "  You  have  played  a 
very  mean,  unkind  trick,"  she  said.  '*  We  thought  per- 
haps you  had  done  it  thoughtlessly  and  would  be  sorry 
for  it,  as  you  have  had  more  than  two  days  to  think  it 
over.     But  it  seems  you  can  only  be  impertinent." 

"  William  the  Conqueror,  ten  sixty  six,  William 
Rufus,  ten  eighty  seven,"  said  Ann,  and  laughed  with 
great  enjoyment,  but  on  a  note  that  seemed  to  her  own 
fine  ear  a  shade  flat. 

"  I  should  send  her  to  Coventry  at  once,  and  not  waste 
any  more  time  over  her,"  said  Mabel  Finney.  "  She  has 
no  nice  feelings  and  no  sense  of  shame." 

"  La  barbel  "  said  Ann,  lightly  brushing  her  cheek 
with  the  back  of  her  hand. 

"  Listen,"  said  Margaret.  "  You  know  as  well  as  we 
do  how  cruel  you  have  been.  Mary  Polegate  has  been 
working  hard  at  her  illumination  for  two  whole  terms, 
and  had  nearly  finished  it;  and  you  wantonly  spoil  it 
for  her.  Don't  you  think  that's  something  to  be 
ashamed  of,  even  if  }Tou  didn't  think  of  what  you  were 
doing?  " 

"  Que  de  chi-chi  pour  des  prunes!  "  said  Ann  with  a 
trifle  of  impatience,  as  if  she  had  only  just  woke  up  to 
the  fact  that  the  matter  was  being  taken  seriously. 
"  You  call  me  here  to  make  me  a  sermon,  and  yet  you  all 
laughed,  a  gorge  deployee,  when  you  saw  the  English 
names." 

"  I  dare  say  it's  very  clever  to  use  French  words 
when  English  will  do,"  said  Susan  Norn's.  "  But  there's 
no  need  to  be  affected  as  well  as  impudent." 

"  It  would  be  affected  if  you  were  to  use  French 
words,"  said  Ann,  "  and  I  don't  suppose  }rou'd  say  them 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  229 

justly.     But  I'm  half  French,  and  it  is  natural  to  me." 

Margaret  leaned  forward  again.  "  Ann  Sinclair," 
she  began. 

"  My  name  is  Marie  Germaine  Felicite  Ann-spelt-in- 
the-English-fashion  Sinclair,  if  you  must  have  it  all." 

"  We  are  going  to  give  you  one  more  chance.  It  was 
Mary,  whom  you  have  treated  so  badly  who  begged  us  to. 
I  think  that  ought  to  make  you  sorry  for  what  you  have 
done.  If  you  say  you  are  sorry,  and  beg  her  pardon, 
she  will  forgive  you." 

Ann  reflected  over  this.     There  would  be  no  difficulty 
in  saying  she  was  sorry  the  deed  was  done,  if  she  could ' 
avoid  saying  that  she  had  done  it.     She  had  not  thought 
of  this  before,  or  she  might  have  met  the  opening  of  the 
proceedings  in  a  different  spirit. 

But  this  small  hope  of  a  happy  issue  out  of  all  her 
afflictions  was  immediately  reft  from  her. 

"  We  are  willing  to  give  you  till  eleven  o'clock  to 
think  it  over,"  said  Margaret,  who  had  noticed  her 
hesitation.  "  Then,  if  you  have  come  to  your  senses, 
you  must  sign  this  paper,  and  we  shall  show  it  to  all 
the  girls  in  the  school." 

Ann  took  the  paper,  and  read  it  through.  It  was 
very  stiff  and  formal,  and  fixed  the  deed  upon  her  with- 
out any  chance  of  misunderstanding.  "  Why  would  you 
make  me  sign  this  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  the  whole  school  knows  what  you  have  done, 
and  the  whole  school  must  know  that  you  are  sorry  for 
it,  if  you  are  sorry,  as  I  hope  you  will  be  when  you  have 
thought  it  over." 

"  Mais  e'est  humiliant  pour  moil"  said  Ann,  seeking 
to  gain  a  little  time. 

"You  ought  to  be  humiliated,"  said  Rosamund  Fel- 
stead,  who  was  gratified  at  having  understood  the  ex- 


230         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

pression,  so  many  of  Ann's  speeches  not  squaring  with 
OUendorf,  nor  even  with  Larousse.  "  You  have  done  a 
very  wicked  thing.  We  all  think  it  is  wonderfully  kind 
and  forgiving  of  Mary  not  to  want  you  to  be  punished 
for  it." 

"  I  would  forgive  her  readily  if  she  would  only  say 
she  was  sorry,"  said  good  Mary  Polegate. 

"  Will  you  be  content  if  I  say  I  am  sorry  her  illumi- 
nation is  spoilt?  "  asked  Ann. 

There  had  been  some  discussion  as  to  the  paper,  and 
if  Mary  Polegate,  with  whom  the  decision  seemed  to  rest, 
had  said  that  she  was  willing  to  accept  the  apology  sug- 
gested, the  signing  would  probably  not  have  been  in- 
sisted upon.  There  was  something  appealing  about 
Ann  as  she  made  the  suggestion,  that  seemed  to  contra- 
dict her  audacious  speech  and  attitude,  and  to  show  that 
she  really  was  sorry,  although  she  found  it  difficult  to 
say  so. 

But  Mary  Polegate  sat  there  looking  meek  and  for- 
giving, and  said  nothing.  After  a  little  pause,  Mar- 
garet Parbury  said :  "  We  have  decided  you  must  sign 
the  paper.  And  we  will  give  you  till  eleven  o'clock  to 
think  it  over." 

Ann  shrugged  her  shoulders.  There  was  no  way  out. 
"  Must  I  ask  Miss  Henderson  if  I  can  think  it  over,  when 
I  ought  to  be  doing  lessons?  "  she  asked.  "  She  might 
not  like  it." 

There  was  no  doing  anything  with  a  girl  like  this. 
Matters  must  take  their  course.  "  Are  you  going  to 
sign  the  paper  or  not?  "  asked  Margaret. 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  would  give  me  till  eleven 
o'clock  to  think  it  over." 

"  Oh,  it's  no  good  talking  to  her  any  more,"  said 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  231 

Mabel  Finney.  "  She  can  only  be  abominably  rude. 
She  has  no  sense  of  shame  whatever." 

"  It  is  nearly  school  time.  Send  her  to  Coventry, 
and  see  how  she  likes  that,"  said  Rosamund  Felstead. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  acquiescence.  Ann  rose. 
"  I'm  afraid  I  must  leave  you,"  she  said  politely.  "  Ar- 
range all  that  between  yourselves.  I'm  not  going  to 
sign  your  silly  old  paper,  which  otherwise  has  enormous 
faults  of  grammar.  I  know  the  pencil  marks  are  rubbed 
out  already,  and  the  chart  isn't  spoilt  at  all.  You  wish 
to  take  some  airs  over  me,  et  ga  prends  pas.  An  r'voir, 
Mesdemoiselles!  " 

IX 

The  decree  of  Coventry  was  to  have  been  pronounced 
with  due  weight,  and  its  full  effects  once  more  explained 
to  Ann.  But  her  unceremonious  departure  had  spoilt 
the  solemnity.  The  monitors,  left  sitting  at  the  table, 
looked  at  one  another.  Nora  O'Brien,  who  had  not  yet 
spoken,  laughed. 

"  It's  no  laughing  matter,"  said  Mabel  Finney.  "  I 
never  thought  she  would  be  as  bad  as  that,  and  Miss 
Sutor  doesn't  like  us  to  send  girls  to  Coventry  unless 
there's  a  very  good  reason  for  it." 

"  Oh,  there's  a  good  enough  reason,"  said  Nora.  "  I 
only  laughed  because  she  was  rather  funny." 

Time  was  getting  on,  and  a  decision  had  to  be  made 
at  once.  Ann's  last  impertinence  showed  that  it  was  of 
no  use  putting  it  off,  for  another  attempt  to  work  on 
her  feelings.  A  monitor  went  to  each  room,  and  an- 
nounced that  Ann  Sinclair  had  been  sent  to  Coventry. 

In  the  meantime,  Ann  had  run  downstairs  and  burst 
into  the  room  where  all  the  girls  of  her  class  were  col- 


£32  THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

lected.  She  was  in  for  it  now,  and  for  the  moment  she 
felt  rather  exhilarated.  During  that  dreadful  Sunday 
evening,  when  she  had  sat  in  the  drawing-room  with  a 
book  on  her  knee,  and  Granny,  tired  with  her  exertions, 
had  dozed  in  her  chair,  she  had  thought  it  all  out. 

The  best  of  what  she  had  imagined  had  not  happened, 
but  neither  had  the  worst.  The  best  would  have  been 
that  Hilda  Lang  would  realize,  as  she  herself  had  done, 
that  if  Ann  went  back  to  school  alone  on  Monday 
morning  she  would  be  bound  to  be  blamed  for  what 
Hilda  had  done.  She  might  have  sent  a  message,  taking 
the  chief  blame  on  her  own  shoulders.  Ann  had  known 
that  she  would  do  that  if  she  thought  of  it,  but  there  had 
not  been  much  hope  that  she  would  think  of  it ;  her  de- 
ficiencies were  too  apparent. 

The  worst  would  have  been  that  Miss  Sutor  would  be 
told,  instead  of  the  supposed  culprit  being  sent  to  Cov- 
entry. In  that  case,  the  fearful  threat  of  telling 
Granny  of  all  her  misdemeanours,  and  asking  her  to 
send  Ann  to  another  school,  would  be  carried  out.  She 
could  not  make  up  her  mind  what  she  should  do  in  that 
event;  but  at  least  she  would  not  say:  "  I  didn't  do  it; 
Hilda  Lang  did,"  until  the  worst  should  happen.  And, 
of  course,  only  to  say:  "  I  didn't  do  it,"  would  be  the 
same  thing,  as  the  blame  would  instantly  be  fastened 
upon  Hilda,  and  by  her. 

The  only  way  would  be  to  goad  the  monitors  into 
sending  her  to  Coventry,  in  which  case  Miss  Sutor  would 
know  nothing  until  the  week  was  up.  She  thought  she 
could  support  that  until  Hilda  Lang  returned  to  school, 
especially  as  all  the  girls  would  be  sorry  that  they  had 
done  it  when  the  truth  came  out,  and  would  make  up  to 
her  for  any  inconveniences  to  which  they  had  subjected 
her.     And  she  would  then  put  it  to  them,  that  as  she 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  233 

had  taken  a  handsome  punishment  for  Hilda's  fault,  and 
Hilda  was  already  sorry  for  what  she  had  done,  the 
affair  might  be  considered  at  an  end. 

What  weighed  on  her  chiefly  was  that  she  must  so 
act  as  to  make  them  all  think  that  she  had  done  the  thing 
which  she  had  excoriated  Hilda  Lang  for  doing,  and 
especially  that  Hilda  Strangways  would  believe  that  she 
had  done  it.  She  was  very  glad  that  Hilda  Strang- 
ways was  not  a  monitor.  In  that  case  it  would  have 
been  very  difficult  to  keep  it  up.  But  it  would  be  bad 
enough  afterwards,  with  Hilda. 

Ann  went  into  the  class  room  laughing.  She  had 
established  a  considerable  ascendancy  over  her  imme- 
diate companions,  and  some  of  them  had  seemed  ready 
to  follow  her  lead  in  breaking  loose  from  the  subjection 
in  which  the  younger  girls  of  the  school  were  expected 
to  live  with  regard  to  the  elder.  "  I've  had  such  fun 
with  them,"  she  said,  "  and  I  came  away  from  them 
before  they  had  finished." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  Didn't  you  say  you  were 
sorry  ?  "  asked  some  one. 

"  I  jsaid  I  would  say  that  I  was  sorry  that  her  old 
chart  was  spoilt,  if  it  truly  is.  But  I  don't  believe  it 
is,  because  she  sat  there,  comme  un  chien  de  faience,  and 
didn't  look  as  if  she  would  have  to  begin  it  all  over  again. 
I  wouldn't  sign  their  silly  old  paper." 

"  The  chart  is  spoilt,"  said  Helen  Webster,  who,  until 
Ann's  arrival  had  been  the  leading  spirit  of  the  class. 
"  It  was  too  bad  to  do  it  in  red  and  blue  pencil,  which 
can't  be  rubbed  out  so  as  not  to  show." 

Ann's  heart  sank.  This  was  worse  than  she  had 
thought,  and  probably  worse  than  foolish  Hilda  had 
thought  either.  "It  had  to  be  mede  to  look  like  the 
rest,"  she  said. 


234.         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

They  didn't  know  what  to  say.  They  had  come  to 
think  that  it  was  altogether  too  bad  of  Ann  to  have 
done  what  they  thought  she  had,  and  there  was  some 
excitement  in  the  idea  of  her  being  sent  to  Coventry. 
They  wanted  to  see  what  she  would  do.  On  the  other 
hand,  they  were  indebted  to  her  for  many  benefits,  and 
while  they  sympathized  with  Mary  Polegate  in  the  spoil- 
ing of  her  precious  chart,  they  knew  that  a  less  serious 
view  would  have  been  taken  of  the  offence  if  it  had  not 
been  committed  against  a  monitor.  Part  of  Ann's  pun- 
ishment would  be  put  to  that  account,  in  which  their 
sympathies  need  not  be  entirely  against  her. 

"Didn't  they  send  you  to  Coventry,  then?"  asked 
Helen  Webster. 

"  Oh,  /  don't  know.  There  was  such  a  lot  of  brou- 
haha about  it  that  I  didn't  stop  to  find  out.  I  said 
good-bye,  and  left  them  planted  there." 

Mabel  Finney  came  into  the  room.  "  Ann  Sinclair 
is  sent  to  Coventry,"  she  said.  "  Nobody  is  to  speak  to 
her,  or  have  anything  to  do  with  her,  except  when  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  in  lesson  times,  until  she  is  ready  to 
apologize  humbly  for  what  she  did  to  Mary  Polegate, 
and  for  being  rude  to  the  monitors." 

"  Humbly  "  was  her  own  amendment  to  the  formal 
message,  but  she  had  never  forgotten  the  wooden  frog. 

She  turned  to  leave  the  room,  amidst  complete  silence. 
"  Your  safety  pin's  showing  under  your  belt,"  said  Ann, 
and  her  exit  was  somewhat  spoilt  by  the  motion  she  made 
to  correct  the  lapse  thus  pointed  out. 

Perhaps  if  Ann  had  had  a  few  minutes  in  which  to 
make  her  impression,  the  girls  of  her  class  might  have 
rebelled  against  the  decision  announced  to  them.  But, 
Miss  Henderson  coming  in  at  that  moment,  they  had  to 
hurry  to  their  seats.     Ann's  was  at  the  end  of  a  row, 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  235 

and  Hilda  Lang's  next  to  it  was  empty,  which  created 
an  effect  of  isolation  in  itself.  There  was  no  one  bold 
enough  to  take  the  definite  step  of  showing  that  she  in- 
tended to  disregard  the  decree,  and  so  giving  a  lead  to 
the  rest.  During  the  two  hours  of  varied  work,  there 
were  opportunities  of  withholding  intercourse  from  Ann, 
and  they  were  taken.  Tradition  was  too  strong  to  be 
broken,  and  by  the  time  the  eleven  o'clock  interval  came 
it  was  well  understood  throughout  the  class  that  Ann 
was  already  in  Coventry. 

Ann  talked  brightly  to  every  one  with  whom  she  came 
in  contact  as  all  the  girls  of  the  school  trooped  into  the 
cloakroom,  where  glasses  of  hot  and  cold  milk  and  buns 
and  biscuits  were  set  out,  but  they  all  fell  away  from  her 
or  turned  their  backs,  and  she  had  to  give  that  up,  and 
pretend  that  she  hadn't  noticed,  while  they  fell  into 
groups,  and  discussed  her  in  low  voices. 

The  cloakroom  opened  into  the  garden,  and  Ann 
planted  herself  in  the  doorway,  with  her  glass  of  milk 
and  her  bun,  her  legs  well  stuck  out  so  that  everybody 
who  passed  in  and  out  had  to  step  carefully  over  her 
feet  or  as  carefully  avoid  them.  She  apologized  pro- 
fusely for  the  inconvenience  she  was  causing,  whenever 
it  was  brought  to  her  notice,  and  as  she  always  hap- 
pened to  be  looking  out  into  the  garden  if  any  one 
wanted  to  go  out,  and  into  the  room  if  they  wanted  to 
come  in,  she  was  apologizing  nearly  all  the  time.  But  it 
was  a  one-sided  joke,  and  when  she  saw  Hilda  Strang- 
ways  approaching  from  the  garden,  towards  the  end  of 
the  interval,  she  gave  it  up,  and  moved  away  from  the 
door. 

Hilda  was  talking  to  Margaret  Parbury,  about  Ann's 
wickedness,  of  course.  Nobody  was  talking  about  any- 
thing else.     Ann  would  have  liked  to  hear  what  she  was 


236         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

saying.  As  she  came  into  the  room,  where  Ann  was  now 
standing  against  the  wall,  she  looked  at  her.  Her  look 
was  grave  enough,  but  it  was  not  cold,  as  it  had  been 
when  she  had  looked  past  her  in  church.  The  ready 
blush  flooded  Ann's  face  as  she  met  it.  Hilda  looked 
away,  as  if  she  could  not  understand  her. 

By  the  end  of  the  morning  Ann  felt  that  she  had  had 
enough  of  fighting  the  whole  school  for  the  time  being. 
"  Now  don't  ask  me  to  talk  to  you,  girls,"  she  said,  aa 
the  mistress  who  had  taken  the  last  lesson  left  the  room, 
"  You  are  all  so  stupid  this  morning  that  I  prefer  nof 
to  waste  my  conversation.  Don't  interrupt  me  whik 
I'm  occupied." 

This  allowed  her  to  do  what  she  had  to  do  in  a  silence 
that  had  the  effect  of  being  of  her  own  making,  until  she 
could  go  down  and  join  Lizzie  in  the  cloakroom. 

X 

Ann's  first  engagement  in  the  afternoon  was  a  violiij 
lesson.  She  could  be  as  dull  as  she  liked  there,  and  she 
was  very  dull,  so  that  M.  Lanson  stormed  at  her,  and 
told  her  that  she  was  a  disgrace  to  his  teaching.  Hi$ 
annoyance  was  rather  a  relief.  She  spoke  to  him  in 
English,  which  he  hated,  from  her.  At  the  end  of  the 
lesson  he  relented,  and  s&id  i "  Tu  ties  pas  bien,  ma 
p'tite.  Tu  pewx  bien  me  laisser  de  te  dire  ces  choses, 
moi  ion  vieux  maitre.     La  prochuine  fois  <;a  va  mieux.'* 

The  second  engagement  was  hockey,  for  the  whole 
school.  They  walked  to  the  field  two  and  two.  Ann 
hurriedly  asked  as  many  girls  as  possible  to  walk  with 
her,  one  after  the  other.  "  Oh,  you  can't?  I'm  sorry," 
she  would  say,  and  go  on  to  the  next  one.  She  had 
worked  through  a  considerable  proportion  of  the  school 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  237 

when  Margaret  Parbury  told  her  she  was  to  walk  with 
Ida  Barrett. 

Ida  Barrett  was  a  shy,  nervous  girl  of  about  fifteen, 
and  Ann  began  an  animated  conversation  with  her  the 
moment  they  set  out.  As  she  knew  she  would  get  no 
replies,  she  sustained  both  parts  of  the  duologue  herself, 
imitating  Ida  Barrett's  voice  and  manner  when  it  was 
her  turn  to  speak. 

"  Beautiful  weather  for  the  time  of  year,  is  it  not, 
Miss  Barrett?  We  ought  to  have  an  agreeable  game 
of  hockey,  I  think." 

Then  in  a  hurried  shrinking  tone :  "  You  know  I 
mustn't  speak  to  you,  Ann.     I  wish  you'd  be  quiet." 

The  imitation  was  so  good  that  one  or  two  girls  looked 
back  to  see  if  it  was  really  Ida  Barrett  who  was  talking, 
which  gave  Ann  the  opportunity  of  rebuking  them. 
"  You  are  very  naughty  girls,"  she  said  severely,  "  to 
take  any  notice  of  me.  I  shall  report  you  to  Miss  Par- 
bury,  who  will  send  you  to  Coventry." 

Then,  with  a  resumption  of  her  previous  polite  air  of 
conversation :  "  May  I  ask,  Miss  Barrett,  if  you  have 
ever  familiarized  yourself  with  the  town  of  Coventry? 
Ah,  no?  You  should.  I  know  of  a  young  girl  —  I  as- 
sure you  a  charming  young  girl  —  whom  you  would  like 
very  much.  She  is  making  a  short  sejour  there.  Her 
name  is  Marie  Germaine  Felicite  Ann-spelt-in-the-Eng- 
lish-fashion  Sinclair." 

Imitation  of  Ida  Barrett,  getting  still  more  nervous 
and  flustered :  "  I  wish  you'd  be  quiet,  Ann.  The  moni- 
tors told  me  not  to  speak  to  you,  and  they  will  be  very 
angry  with  me  if  I  do." 

"  I  wish  to  tell  you  about  this  charming  young  girl. 
She  is  descended  from  William  the  Conqueror,  through 
William  Rufus,  you  understand,  and  I  think  from  Peka- 


238         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

hiah,  but  I  am  not  quite  certain  about  that."  Change 
of  tone :  "  Nora  O'Brien,  three  rows  in  advance,  I  can  see 
you  laughing.  I  shall  certainly  report  you  to  Miss 
Parbury  —  or  to  Miss  Finney,  whose  shoe  has  come  un- 
laced." Resumption  of  polite  tone:  "  Excuse  me,  Miss 
Barrett!  I  have  to  keep  these  troublesome  girls  in  or- 
der, especially  Miss  Finney,  who  is  untidy  in  her  dress, 
and  has  no  sense  of  shame." 

Representation  of  Ida  Barrett,  in  a  state  of  almost 
tearful  remonstrance:  "I  do  wish  you'd  be  quiet,  Ann. 
You  will  get  me  into  such  trouble  with  the  monitors,  and 
I  do  love  them  all  so." 

"  Qu'est  ce  que  e'est  que  ces  moult  curs,  Miss  Barrett? 
The  charming  young  girl  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you  had 
some  friends  called  moniteurs,  but  she  found  them  rather 
collet  monte  —  how  do  you  say  it?  stuck  up.  There 
was  one  called  Mam'selle  Parburri,  who  counselled 
her  to  inhabit  Coventry,  and  another  called  Mam'selle 
Finni,  who  was  untidy  in  her  dress,  and  had  no  sense  of 
shame." 

Word  was  sent  down  the  line  that  everybody  was  to 
talk,  and  not  listen  to  Ann  Sinclair's  impertinences.  As 
a  counterstroke  it  was  not  brilliantly  conceived,  but 
seemed  to  be  the  only  one  available  for  the  moment. 
Ann  passed  it  on  herself,  in  an  official  voice,  and  in  the 
amended  form:  "  Everybody  is  to  talk  to  Ann  Sinclair, 
and  not  listen  to  Margaret  Parbury's  impertinences"; 
but  as  Ida  Barrett  also  passed  it  on,  correctly,  Ann  was 
relieved  of  the  necessity  of  keeping  it  up  any  longer,  and 
her  unfortunate  companion  was  left  in  peace. 

Ann  was  in  First  Game,  and  had  risen  to  a  position 
in  which  she  was  usually  chosen  in  a  pick-up  about  half 
way  down.  She  played  half  back  on  the  left  wing,  was 
very  neat  and  quick  on  her  thin  legs,  and  quite  fearless 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  239 

of  having  them  damaged.  Tin's  afternoon  she  was  the 
last  to  be  picked,  but  was  given  her  usual  place  in  the 
field,  and  prepared  herself  to  take  an  active  part  in  the 
game. 

She  was  here,  there  and  everywhere,  but  through  an 
apparent  excess  of  zeal  not  often  where  she  was  wanted. 
When  the  first  penalty  corner  stroke  was  played  she  was 
over  the  line  just  before  the  ball  was  hit,  and  the  line  had 
to  be  formed  up  again  and  the  stroke  repeated,  for  which 
she  apologized;  but  the  same  thing  happened  at  the 
second  hit,  and  once  or  twice  later  on.  She  was  so 
anxious  that  goals  should  be  scored  for  her  side  that 
she  constantly  tried  to  make  them  herself,  from  some 
distance  off,  instead  of  passing  to  her  forwards,  but 
never  once  succeeded  in  getting  the  ball  between  the 
posts.  At  the  end  of  the  game  the  other  side  had  won 
by  five  goals  to  one,  and  Ann  told  Ida  Barrett  on  the 
way  back  that  she  had  enjoyed  it  enormously  and  looked 
forward  to  the  next  one. 


XI 

So  far,  Ann  had  had  very  much  the  best  of  it.  But 
feeling  was  beginning  to  rise  against  her.  For  one 
thing,  she  had  spoilt  the  game  of  twenty-one  other  girls ; 
for  another,  she  had  reduced  the  monitors  to  a  feeling 
of  impotence  which  they  were  burning  to  redress. 

On  the  rare  occasions  within  memory  on  which  girls 
had  been  sent  to  Coventry,  they  had  gone  about  looking 
miserable,  and  penitently  accepted  their  release  the  mo- 
ment it  had  been  offered  to  them.  It  was  the  last  awful, 
dreaded  punishment.  But  Ann  had  taken  it  as  a  re- 
lease from  all  bonds  of  respectful  behaviour.  During 
the  walk  to  the  hockey  field,  she  had  been  abominably 


240         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

cheeky  to  the  monitors  before  the  whole  school,  and 
might  be  more  cheeky  still,  and  what  could  they  do? 
Tlitv  had  shot,  their  bolt.  It  would  be  acknowledging 
defeat  at  her  hands  to  complain  to  Miss  Sutor,  and  be- 
sides, the  understanding  with  the  headmistress  was  that 
if  they  took  it  upon  themselves  to  send  a  girl  to  Cov- 
entry, they  must  carry  the  punishment  through  them- 
selves. It  was  what  it  had  been  allowed  them  for  —  the 
last  prop  and  stay  of  their  authority.  If,  as  had  never 
yet  happened,  the  culprit  was  recalcitrant  up  to  the  full 
time  allowed,  they  could  appeal  to  Miss  Sutor;  but  at 
the  rate  at  which  she  was  "going  Ann  would  have  upset 
all  authority  long  before  the  week  was  up  ;  and  that  must 
be  stopped  somehow. 

After  all,  it  was  one  girl  of  thirteen,  the  last  comer 
to  the  school  —  this  was  an  added  offence  —  against  all 
the  rest,  and  she  had  done  a  thing  that,  however  she 
might  brazen  it  out,  they  were  justified  in  punishing  her 
for.  She  could  be  brought  to  a  sense  of  her  condition, 
but  it  would  have  to  be  by  taking  the  offensive  against 
her,  and  ways  had  to  be  concerted  for  doing  that. 

There  was  a  cubicle  set  aside  for  Ann  and  Hilda  Lang 
to  change  in,  in  the  dormitory  of  which  Mabel  Finney 
was  the  monitor.  Some  light  skirmishing  had  gone  on 
during  the  few  minutes  taken  to  change  into  hockey 
dress,  in  which  Ann  had  held  her  own.  The  others  had 
talked  among  themselves,  and  taken  no  notice  of  the  oc- 
casional remarks  she  had  called  out.  But  in  the  longer 
process  of  dressing  after  hockey,  there  was  a  change  of 
policy.  Ann  was  discussed,  as  if  she  were  not  there, 
except  that,  of  course,  everything  that  was  said  about 
her  was  intended  for  her  ears.  She  threw  in  her  occa- 
sional remarks,  which  were  variations  on :  "I'm  here,  you 
know;  I  can  hear  everything  you  say,"  and  sometimes 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  241 

scored  by  a  sharp  interpolation.  But  she  could  not 
make  headway  against  five  girls  determined  to  ignore 
her,  and  had  to  listen  to  a  good  deal  that  reflected  itself 
on  her  face  in  a  very  different  way  from  that  indicated 
by  the  voice  in  which  she  answered  them. 

The  personal  remarks  caused  her  no  particular  dis- 
tress. They  were  what  might  be  called  "  flappery," 
with  a  good  many  "  of  courses "  and  "  my  dears " 
thrown  in,  and  were  obviously  made  up  for  the  occasion. 
But  even  in  them  she  caught  echoes  of  jealousies  that  she 
had  not  known  to  exist,  which  hurt  her,  although  she 
scarcely  understood  them. 

Her  hair  was  like  a  fuzz-bush.  She  would  grow  up 
like  a  maypole.  She  was  the  most  overdressed  girl  in 
the  school,  and  alternatively  she  was  dressed  like  a  baby, 
and  the  wonder  was  she  didn't  come  to  school  in  a 
perambulator.  She  thought  a  great  deal  of  herself  be- 
cause her  people  were  rich,  and  had  titles.  This  was 
from  Helen  Webster,  who  had  been  to  tea  with  her,  and 
she  blushed  hotly  at  it,  more  for  the  speaker's  sake  than 
her  own. 

Mabel  Finney  took  no  part  in  these  opening  remarks, 
and  after  the  last  speech,  turned  the  conversation  on  to 
Ann's  impertinence  to  Margaret  Parbury,  who  was  a 
full  nineteen,  and  universally  liked  and  respected. 

"  I  should  expect  her  to  make  fun  of  me"  said  Mabel 
Finney.  "  I'm  not  pretty,  and  I  have  to  wear  spec- 
tacles, and  my  people  can't  afford  to  give  me  the  sort  of 
clothes  she  wears."  ("  How  funny  you'd  look  in 
them !  "  from  Ann.)  "  Those  are  just  the  things  that  a 
sirl  like  that  mould  make  fun  of.  But  when  it  comes  to 
a  girl  like  Margaret,  it's  different.  Everybody  knows 
how  nice  she  is,  and  if  you'd  only  seen  the  way  in  which 
she  treated  her  this  morning,  not  taking  any  notice  of 


242         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

her  rudeness  —  and   trying  to   make  her  ashamed   of 
what  she  had  done !  " 

"  She  was  awfully  sweet  to  poor  Mary  about  it,  too," 
said  another  voice.  "  She  did  her  best  to  get  out  the 
marks,  and  when  they  saw  it  was  no  good,  and  Mary 
said  she  didn't  feel  as  if  she  could  go  on  with  it  any  more, 
after  it's  being  spoilt  the  second  time,  she  almost  cried 
herself,  she  was  so  sorry  for  her." 
"  Everybody  was  sorry  for  her." 
"  Except  the  one  who  did  it." 

"  All  she  could  do  was  to  call  her  names,  even  after 
she  had  said  she  would  forgive  her  if  she  would  only  say 
she  was  sorry." 

"What  did  she  call  her?" 

"  It  was  when  she  came  into  the  classroom,  very  proud 
of   herself   for   being   rude   upstairs,    and    thinking   we 
should  all  be  on  her  side.     She  said  Mary  Polegate  had 
sat  there  looking  like  a  china  dog." 
"  Did  she  really  say  that  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  in  French.  She  uses  the  most  horrible  ex- 
pressions in  French  —  goodness  knows  where  she  picked 
them  up  —  and  thinks  nobody  will  understand  them.  I 
asked  Mademoiselle,  and  she  said  no  lady  would  think  of 
using  such  an  expression  in  France.  It's  worse  than  it 
sounds  in  English." 

"  It  would  be  bad  enough  in  English,  after  what  she 
had  done.      To  call  her  any  name  would." 

How  Ann  wished  she  had  known  that  foolish  Hilda 
Lang  had  made  her  addition  in  a  way  that  could  not  be 
rubbed  out!  She  had  taken  a  dreadful  deed  on  her 
shoulders,  and  treated  it  in  a  dreadful  way.  But  she 
must  go  on  with  it  now. 

Mabel  Finney  took  it  up.     "  It  just  shows  what  she 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  243 

really  is,"  she  said,  "  underneath  all  her  pretence.  But 
I  was  going  to  tell  you  —  the  other  monitors  said  I 
could  —  that  in  the  first  meeting  we  had,  Margaret  said 
that  she  couldn't  believe  she  had  really  done  it."  Ann 
listened  hard  here.  "  I  won't  say  who  we  thought  it 
might  have  been,  because  that  wouldn't  be  fair." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  silly.     Of  course  you  mean  Hilda  Lang." 

"  Well,  I  ought  not  to  have  said  it  in  a  way  to  make 
you  think  that.  Nobody  mentioned  her  name,  and  I 
hope  it  won't  be  said,  when  she  comes  back,  that  anybody 
suspected  her." 

"  I  shall  tell  her  that  you  did,"  called  out  Ann. 

"  I  mean  by  anybody  whose  word  you  could  believe," 
continued  Mabel  Finney.  "  What  Margaret  said  was 
that  she  might  have  worked  upon  somebod}'  so  that  she 
would  think  it  was  clever  to  do  what  she  wouldn't  do 
herself." 

"  That  would  be  awfully  mean." 

"  And  just  like  her." 

"  Yes.  But  Margaret  didn't  mean  it  in  that  way. 
She  said  she  didn't  think  we  ought  even  to  say  that  she 
had  done  it,  until  she  had  an  opportunity  of  defending 
herself.  She  said  that  she  was  naughty  and  trouble- 
some sometimes,  but  she  had  never  thought  she  would  do 
anything  really  unkind." 

"  She  knows  better  now." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  But  I  tell  you  that  just  to  show 
you  how  she  stood  up  for  her.  And  that's  the  girl  — 
years  older  than  herself  —  that  she  can  only  be  vulgarly 
rude  to." 

"  It's  a  good  thing  they  found  the  pencil  in  her  desk. 
If  they  hadn't,  Hilda  Lang  might  have  been  suspected, 
and  as  she's  away  ill  she  couldn't  defend  herself." 


244  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  That  would  just  have  suited  her.  She's  quite  mean 
enough  to  have  lei  her  hear  the  blame." 

"  No,  she  isn't,"'  Ann  called  out.  She  had  to  say 
something,  but  hoped  the  quiver  in  her  voice  had  not 
been  noticed.  She  saw  it  all  now.  She  had  bought 
herself  a  pencil  with  red  at  one  end  and  blue  at  the 
other.  Hilda  Lang  had  taken  it  for  her  fell  purpose. 
There  was  no  offence  in  that,  as  they  had  agreed  to 
share  all  such  things ;  but  she  wished  she  had  told  her. 

Ann's  dressing  did  not  take  so  long  as  that  of  the 
boarders.  When  she  could  command  her  voice,  she 
called  out :  "  I  can't  stay  any  longer,  girls.  I'm  going 
down  to  bag  one  of  the  armchairs." 

There  was  a  short  interval  before  tea-time,  which  the 
girls  who  had  finished  dressing  spent  in  the  big  hall. 
This  was  their  general  sitting-room.  There  were  some 
armchairs  in  it,  which  it  was  understood  that  the  moni- 
tors occupied,  if  they  were  there. 

Ann  was  the  first  down,  but  she  did  not  appropriate 
an  armchair.  She  thought  it  would  be  easier  to  sit  at  a 
table  and  immerse  herself  in  a  book.  There  was  another 
ordeal  immediately  before  her. 

XII 

Tea  was  an  informal  meal,  at  which  no  mistresses  were 
present.  Cakes  and  other  extras  were  allowed,  pro- 
vided by  the  girls  themselves.  They  were  very  plenti- 
ful at  the  beginning  of  term,  but  apt  to  run  short  to- 
wards the  close.  Ann  had  been  a  godsend  in  coaxing  all 
sorts  of  things  out  of  the  cook  at  home,  in  the  latter 
lean  days,  and  had  promised  for  this  evening  a  great 
cake,  fresh  from  the  oven,  which  Lizzie  was  under  orders 
to  bring  up  just  before  teatime.      She  had  not  counter- 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  245 

manded  it  in  the  morning,  not  having  been  altogether 
without  hope,  and  with  a  vague  idea  of  propitiation  in 
her  mind,  and  had  forgotten  it  in  the  afternoon.  But 
the  devoted  cook  had  not.  Ann  stole  into  the  dining- 
room  on  her  way  to  the  hall,  and  there  was  the  huge 
cake,  hot  and  spicy,  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  where  it 
was  the  custom  for  the  dispenser  of  hospitality  to  sit, 
with  the  head  girl  at  the  other  end  opposite  to  her. 

The  girls  gradually  filled  the  chairs  down  the  long 
table.  In  the  ordinary  way,  those  on  either  side  of  Ann 
would  have  been  taken  at  least  as  readily  as  the  others ; 
but  now  they  were  left,  for  the  last  comers. 

Ann  got  her  cup  of  tea  from  the  side-table,  and  took 
it  to  her  place.  Then  she  stood  up  with  the  cake  knife 
in  her  hand,  and  carefully  counted  the  heads  round  the 
table.  Everybody  affected  to  take  no  notice  of  her, 
but  the  buzz  of  talk  did  not  sound  quite  natural. 

Ann  began  to  cut  the  cake.  She  looked  at  each  girl, 
beginning  with  Margaret  Parbury,  as  she  cut  her  ap- 
pointed slice,  and  went  over  the  count  once  or  twice 
as  she  worked  down  the  table. 

She  came  to  Gertrude  Knight,  who  had  been  one  of 
her  late  tormentors  in  the  dormitory.  Gertrude  Knight 
was  a  fat  girl  of  sixteen,  who  was  known  to  have  once 
kept  a  large  box  of  chocolates  in  her  desk  and  eaten  them 
all  herself,  and  had  suffered  from  a  reputation  for 
greediness  ever  since.  Ann  considered  her  with  her  head 
on  one  side,  and  then  cut  a  slice  rather  more  than  twice 
the  size  of  the  rest. 

There  were  subdued  titters.  Gertrude  Knight  threw 
a  glance  down  the  table,  and  there  were  more  titters. 
But  Ann  was  seriously  considering  the  next  person. 

When  she  had  cut  up  half  the  cake,  she  said :  "  That's 
enough  to  begin  with."      (Hilda  Strangways  was  on  the 


24G  THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

other  side  of  the  tabic,  and  she  did  not  want  to  include 
her  in  the  comedy.)     She  started  off  to  the  top  of  the 

table  carrying  the  cake,  which  was  almost  too  heavy 
for  her. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Margaret  Parbury.  "  No, 
thank  you,"  said  Rosamund  Feist  tad,  who  was  sitting 
next  to  her.  Ann  went  conscientiously  down  the  line 
until  she  came  to  Gertrude  Knight,  who  said:  "No, 
thank  you,"  like  all  the  rest.  Ann  rested  the  heavy 
plate  on  the  table  by  her  side,  where  the  savoury  reek 
could  greet  her  nostrils.  "  Oh,  do  have  a  little  morsel," 
she  said.  "  It  is  very  light.  It  won't  do  you  any 
harm." 

Gertrude  Knight  said,  "  No,  thank  you,"  again,  but 
was  unable  to  forbear  a  fleeting  side-glance  at  the 
delicacy.  Whereupon  the  titters  broke  out  again  here 
and  there. 

"  Go  and  sit  down,"  said  Margaret  Parbury,  in  a 
clear  voice.      "  Nobody  wants  any  cake." 

Ann  obeyed  her.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ac- 
knowledged the  voice  of  authority.  When  she  reached 
her  own  seat,  she  offered  herself  a  piece  of  cake,  and 
refused  it  in  a  haughty  voice,  but  pressed  it  upon  her- 
self solicitously,  and  finally  took  it.  Afterwards  she 
wished  she  hadn't,  for  although  she  tried  very  hard  to 
finish  it,  she  had  to  leave  some  of  it  on  her  plate,  which 
she  did  with  the  remark  that  it  wasn't  quite  as  good  as 
usual,  and  she  should  bring  another  one  the  next  day. 

XIII 

Ann  turned  up  at  school  the  next  morning  looking 
very  neat  and  fresh,  and  not  at  all  as  if  she  had  cried 
herself  to  sleep  the  night  before.      She  had  prepared  one 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  247 

or  two  small  surprises  of  attack,  under  the  more  hopeful 
light  of  morning,  but  the  enemy  was  also  in  the  mood 
for  attack  now,  and  got  in  their  strokes  first. 

She  was  summoned  to  Margaret  Parbury,  who  asked 
her  shortly  if  she  had  come  to  her  senses  yet,  and  when 
she  replied  that  she  had  always  had  them,  wasted  no 
time  on  her,  but  said :  "  Here's  the  money  you  subscribed 
for  Miss  Sutor's  present.  We  are  not  going  to  let  a 
girl  who  behaves  as  you  do  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
things  that  we  arrange  among  ourselves.  And  of  course 
we  are  not  going  to  accept  the  things  that  you  offered 
for  the  supper." 

Ann  flushed  deeply.  "  Miss  Sutor  will  think  I  didn't 
want  to  subscribe,  if  my  name  isn't  on  the  list  with  the 
others,"  she  said. 

"  We  can't  help  that,"  said  Margaret.  "  If  you  do 
what  we  have  told  you  to  before  Friday,  Avhen  we  shall 
write  the  list,  your  name  will  be  in  it.  It's  entirely  for 
you  to  have  it  there  or  not." 

"  It's  very  unfair,"  cried  Ann.  "  You  can't  make  me 
do  what  you  want  by  sending  me  to  Coventry,  so  you  try 
to  embrouille  me  with  Miss  Sutor,  by  spite." 

Margaret  Parbury  and  Nora  O'Brien  had  not  wished 
to  take  this  step,  but  the  other  four  monitors,  including 
good  Mary  Polegate,  had  voted  for  it,  and  Margaret 
had  to  carry  out  the  decision.  She  was  just,  but  she 
was  a  little  hard.  And  her  authority,  which  she  had 
always  exercised  with  care  and  moderation,  had  been 
impudently  flouted  by  Ann. 

"  It  is  evident  that  Coventry  is  not  much  punishment 
to  you,"  she  said.  "  For  one  thing,  you  live  at  home, 
and  when  you  go  away  from  here  you  are  able  to  forget 
it  altogether."  (If  she  had  seen  Ann's  pillow  the  night 
before !)     "  But  we  are  not  doing  this  for  an  extra 


248         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

punishment.  We  arc  simply  not  going  to  recognize  you 
as  being  one  of  us  at  all,  more  than  we  are  obliged." 
"  Am  I  to  play  at  the  concert.-  "  asked  Ann. 
She  had  touched  a  weak  spot.  Margaret  met  it  with 
the  full  truth.  "  We  would  much  rather  you  didn't," 
she  said.  "  But  M.  Lanson  would  make  a  great  fuss, 
and  he  might  upset  everything." 

"  Perhaps  I  shan't  play,"  said  Ann.  "  If  you  don't 
want  a  fuss  made  you  had  better  let  me  subscribe  to  Miss 
Sutor's  present.  It's  very  unfair  not  to.  I  didn't  like 
Miss  Sutor  very  much  at  first,  but  I  do  like  her  now,  and 
she  will  think  I  don't." 

"  If  you  don't  play,  you  will  have  to  make  your  own 
•.xcuses,  and  we  shall  be  glad  to  have  it  settled  like  that. 
Ne  are  not  going  to  let  you  subscribe  to  Miss  Sutor's 
present." 

"  You're  a  set  of  beasts ,"  Ann  broke  out  passionately, 
and  was  proceeding  to  the  expression  of  further  in- 
juries ;  but  Margaret  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  put 
her  out  of  the  room. 

She  went  downstairs  in  a  flaming  temper,  and  flung 
into  the  classroom,  where  the  girls  were  waiting  for  her. 
As  she  sat  herself  down  at  her  desk,  she  saw  a  piece  of 
paper  in  front  of  her.  On  it  was  written :  "  The  girls 
asked  to  tea  with  Ann  Sinclair  on  Saturday  are  not 
coming." 

Ann  tore  the  paper  in  half  and  threw  it  on  the  floor. 
"  Sales  betes!  "  she  said. 

The  battle  was  fully  joined  now.  It  was  one  against 
many,  but  Ann's  attacks  were  widely  distributed,  and 
could  only  be  met  by  counterattacks,  and  in  combina- 
tion. For  that  morning  at  least  she  was  unable  to  get 
back  to  her  attitude  of  not  caring,  and  although  she 
made  valiant  efforts  to  resume  it  afterwards,  her  sallies 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  249 

no  longer  met  with  their  previous  success,  and  she  was 
often  dislodged  from  her  entrenchments  and  driven  into 
angry  recriminations.  This  gave  the  enemy  invariable 
advantage,  which  they  were  not  slow  to  make  use  of. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  whole  school  took 
active  part  in  the  fray.  More  than  half  the  girls  simply 
stood  aside,  and  there  were  others  whose  mild  pricks 
were  ineffective.  There  were  even  some  who  felt  uncom- 
fortable, quite  apart  from  the  general  discomfort  of  the 
situation,  at  the  way  Ann  was  being  treated.  But  if 
this  feeling  found  expression,  it  was  always  added  that 
she  had  only  herself  to  thank  for  it.  She  was  behaving 
outrageously.  If  she  would  keep  quiet,  she  would  be  let 
alone.  And,  of  course,  no  compromise  could  be  made 
with  her  as  long  as  she  remained  unrepentant  of  her  first 
offence,  which,  however,  was  gradually  being  lost  sight 
of  in  the  turmoil  and  irritation  of  the  conflict. 

Girls  are  not  so  cruel  as  boys,  but  they  have  their 
share  of  spite,  and  Ann  roused  it  wherever  it  existed. 
It  was  unfortunate  for  her  that  it  should  have  found 
fertile  ground  in  Mabel  Finney's  dormitory.  If  the 
girls  inclined  to  be  sorry  for  Ann  had  known  how  she 
was  treated  there,  objection  would  certainly  have  been 
taken.  Mabel  Finney's  lack  of  physical  attraction  ex- 
tended to  her  character.  As  monitor,  she  set  some 
bounds  to  her  own  wounding  speeches,  but  exercised 
small  control  over  the  tongues  of  the  rest.  Gertrude 
Knight  had  received  an  injury  from  Ann  which  she  re- 
paid with  as  much  rancour  as  her  slow  mind  was  capable 
of.  Helen  Webster's  essential  vulgarity  of  disposition 
and  her  jealousy  of  Ann  found  utterance  through  her 
sharp  tongue.  The  other  two  girls  were  sometimes 
ashamed  of  the  things  that  were  said,  but  followed  tin 
lead  of  the  rest.     Ann  would  escape  from  the  dormitory 


250         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

quivering  in  every  sensitive  nerve,  but  she  never  let  them 
know  how  much  they  hurt  her,  and  still  threw  an  occa- 
sional sharp  dart  of  speech  at  them  across  the  tops  of 
the  cubicles. 

She  had,  in  fact,  made  a  miscalculation  at  the  outset. 
She  had  thought  that  if  she  never  showed  distress,  and 
made  herself  as  amusing  as  possible,  she  would  have  her 
own  contemporaries  at  least  laughing  with  her,  though 
officially  they  would  have  to  ignore  her.  She  would  thus 
be  able  to  reject  the  disgrace  of  Coventry,  and  only  have 
to  sustain  its  inconveniences.  But  she  had  a  little  over- 
done the  humour,  and  had  not  reckoned  on  any  effective 
body  of  dislike.  How  could  she  have  done,  when  she 
had  always  had  the  world  at  her  feet,  and  had  never 
known  unkindness  in  her  life? 

She  knew  it  now. 

XIV 

On  Wednesday  afternoon,  all  the  girls  had  changed 
for  hockey  as  usual,  but  a  sudden  sharp  downpour, 
which  developed  into  steady  rain,  kept  them  indoors. 
Presently  they  changed  back  again,  and  Ann  was  too 
dispirited  during  the  second  process  to  make  the  usual 
retorts.  If  she  had  known  it  was  going  to  rain  she  need 
not  have  come  back  to  school  at  all  until  after  tea,  and 
might  have  been  sitting  at  peace  with  a  book,  with  dear 
Granny,  or  in  her  own  pretty  room  at  home.  Now  she 
had  a  drear}7  afternoon  in  front  of  her  in  the  hall,  where 
everybody  else  would  be  amusing  themselves  happily,  and 
she,  at  the  best,  would  be  left  to  her  own  company. 

If  only  she  had  brought  her  violin  with  her!  She 
might  have  got  away  by  herself  to  practise.     But  it  was 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  251 

not  her  afternoon  for  a  lesson,  and  she  thought  it  was  of 
no  use  trying  to  borrow  one. 

But  to  her  surprise,  Margaret  Parbury  came  up  to 
her,  where  she  was  sitting  shunned  and  alone,  and  said: 
"  If  you  would  like  to  practise  for  the  concert,  Mildred 
Worsley  will  lend  you  her  violin,  and  you  can  go  up  to 
your  cubicle." 

Ann  accepted,  with  a  grateful  glance  which  Margaret 
did  not  meet.  Mildred  Worsley's  violin  was  not  the 
companion  that  her  own  beloved  Gagliano  would  have 
been,  but  she  much  preferred  it  to  any  other  companion- 
ship that  was  available  for  the  moment,  and  even  the 
now-dreaded  cubicle  changed  its  aspect,  as  she  prac- 
tised her  phrases  over  and  over  again  by  heart,  and 
varied  them  by  an  occasional  excursion  into  other  fields 
of  memory. 

She  had  been  playing  for  half  an  hour,  when  the  door 
of  the  dormitory  opened.  She  paled,  and  left  off  play- 
ing. Surely  they  could  not  be  coming  up  to  get  ready 
for  tea  yet !  The  colour  flooded  her  face  again  as  the 
door  of  her  cubicle  opened  and  Hilda  Strangways  came 
in. 

"  Margaret  said  I  might  talk  to  you,  Ann,  if  you'd  let 
me,"  she  said. 

It  was  an  added  pang  that  her  own  treatment  of 
Hilda  should  have  made  it  doubtful  whether  she  would 
let  her  talk  to  her.  "  I'm  only  too  pleased,"  she  said, 
with  a  faint  attempt  at  a  smile. 

"  Well,  put  the  violin  down  then." 

Ann  did  as  she  was  told.  Hilda  sat  down  on  the  bed. 
"  Ann  dear,  don't  you  think  you've  had  enough  now?  " 
she  said.     "  Can't  you  say  you're  sorry?  " 

Ann  looked  down.     "  I'm  very  sorry  I  behaved  so 


252         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

badly  to  you"  she  said.     "  I  was,  directly  I'd  done  it." 

Hilda  put  her  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  towards 
her.  Her  slender  body,  which  quivered  a  little,  and  the 
look  in  her  face,  made  her  seem  very  childish  and 
pathetic  to  the  older  girl.  "  Oh,  well,  perhaps  I  under- 
stand that  better  than  you'd  think,"  she  said.  "  It  used 
to  take  me  like  that  sometimes  when  I  was  younger. 
Something  inside  you  makes  you  do  the  opposite  to  what 
you  want  to  do.  I  thought  afterwards  that  if  I  hadn't 
shown  I  was  offended  with  you  you'd  have  done  what  I 
wanted.     Would  you?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  would.  I  felt  horrible  inside  of  me  when 
I  was  teasing  Mary  Polegate,  and  you  heard  me." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  so.  It  was  silly  of  you  to  behave 
like  that,  but  you  know  you  are  rather  a  baby  some- 
times, Ann.  It  makes  it  difficult  for  older  girls  who 
want  to  be  friends  with  you." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  be  friends  with  me 
now,"  said  Ann,  forlornly. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I've  been  feeling  dreadfully  sorry  for 
you." 

The  light  frame  relaxed  against  her,  and  an  arm  stole 
round  her  neck.  Ann's  own  music  had  made  her  feel 
mournful,  and  she  wanted  to  cry.  But  she  knew  she 
mustn't  do  that,  until  she  got  home ;  for  if  she  once  be- 
gan, she  would  not  be  able  to  leave  off,  and  it  would  be 
all  over  with  her  powers  of  resistance. 

Hilda  gave  her  a  little  hug,  and  put  her  cheek  against 
hers.  She  knew  that  Ann  must  be  wanting  to  cry,  and 
thought  she  might  have  an  easier  task  with  her  if  she 
she  did.  For  she  had  only  so  far  cleared  the  way  for 
what  Margaret,  without  consulting  the  other  monitors, 
had  told  her  she  might  break  Ann's  Coventry  for. 

There  was  a  pause,  while  the  comfort  of  the  arm 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  253 

around  her,  and  the  cheek  against  hers,  stole  into  Ann's 
hungry  being.  Then  Hilda  said :  "  Ann,  don't  set  every- 
body against  you  any  more.  It's  dreadful  to  have  to 
look  on  at  it ;  and  I  can't  get  away  from  it,  you  know, 
like  you  can.     It  goes  on  after  you  have  gone  home." 

Ann  felt  to  the  full  this  generous  way  of  putting  it. 
Hilda  was  going  to  make  it  very  hard  for  her  to  hold 
out. 

"  Are  they  very  awful?  "  she  asked,  in  a  lighter  tone. 
"  You  have  no  idea  how  awful  they  are  up  here.  But  I 
say  things  they  don't  like  to  swallow,  too." 

She  felt  Hilda's  arm  relax  ever  so  little,  and  pressed 
all  the  closer  to  her.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  very  wicked 
to  answer  them  back  ?  "  she  asked.  "  But  I  don't  wish 
that  they  shall  march  on  my  feet." 

Hilda  drew  her  cheek  away,  and  Ann  stood  up 
straighter,  but  still  kept  her  arm  rather  tight  round 
Hilda's  neck.  She  was  under  the  hard  necessity  of  dis- 
appointing this  friend,  but  she  would  cling  to  her  as 
long  as  she  could.  "  I  can  support  the  consequences  till 
the  end  of  the  week,"  she  said ;  "  especially  if  you  are 
going  to  be  friends  with  me  when  it  is  all  over." 

"  What  I  can't  understand,"  said  Hilda,  "  is  your 
doing  it  at  all.  I  saw  you  had  left  off  teasing  Mary, 
and  I  simply  couldn't  believe  it,  when  I  saw  what  you  had 
done." 

So  she  had  noticed  —  on  that  unhappy  afternoon! 
Ann  put  her  cheek  to  hers  again,  but  said  nothing. 

Hilda  did  not  draw  away  this  time.  "  Ann  dear,  why 
did  you  ?  Was  it  because  I  wouldn't  take  any  notice  of 
you,  when  I  thought  you  were  sorry?  If  so,  it  was 
partly  my  fault." 

"  Oh,  no,"  sighed  Ann.  "  It's  all  a  dreadful  muddle. 
Please  don't  ask  me  about  it  any  more." 


254         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

Hilda  thought  hard.  "  It  wasn't  like  you,  Ann,"  she 
said. 

Ann  felt  that  this  was  getting  dangerous.  Perhaps, 
if  Hilda  had  come  to  her  in  this  way  before,  she  might 
have  confided  to  her  how  matters  stood,  and  bound  her 
to  secrecy.  It  would  not  have  been  so  bad  if  there  had 
been  some  one  who  understood  her.  But  now  she  had 
gone  so  far,  she  could  not  bear  to  say,  even  to  her: 
"  Hilda  Lang  did  it."  The  words  would  have  stuck  in 
her  throat.  She  stood  up  again.  "  I  thought  it  would 
have  rubbed  out,"  she  said. 

Hilda  was  still  thinking.  "  You  had  two  whole  days 
to  think  it  over,"  she  said.  "  You  must  have  known  you 
had  done  something  very  unkind,  and  I  could  see  on 
Monday  morning,  and  on  Sunday  in  church  too,  that 
you  weren't  against  me  any  more.  Why  did  you  come 
±o  school  in  the  mood  you  did?  " 

"  I  said  I  would  say  I  was  sorry  the  illumination  was 
spoilt.      I  only  wouldn't  sign  the  paper." 

"  But  you  weren't  sorry  at  all.  You  couldn't  have 
been.  Not  really  sorry  —  the  way  you  behaved  to  the 
monitors.  Margaret  says  you  began  to  be  cheeky  to 
them  before  they  said  anything  to  you  at  all.  You  must 
have  made  that  all  up  before  you  came,  Ann." 

"  Perhaps  I  did  —  some  of  it,"  said  Ann.  "  I  knew 
that  everybody  would  be  very  angry  with  me,  and  I  have 
not  the  habitude  to  support  that.  Besides,  I  did  not 
know  until  afterwards  that  it  had  truly  been  spoilt,  or  I 
wouldn't  have  behaved  exactly  as  I  did.  I  thought  it 
had  been  done  with  pencil  that  would  rub  out." 

Hilda  looked  at  her.  What  did  the  last  sentence 
mean?  It  might  only  have  been  Ann's  slightly  un-Eng- 
lish way  of  saying  that  she  had  thought  her  own  red  and 
blue  marks  would  rub  out ;  or  — 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  255 

"  Was  it  you  who  did  it,  Ann?  " 

Ann  looked  away,  and  her  colour  came  and  went. 
She  drew  her  arm  from  Hilda's  neck.  "  Oh,  why  do  you 
embete  me?  "  she  said  impatiently.  "  I  won't  talk  about 
it  any  more.  You  know  everything,  and  it  is  very  tire- 
some to  me  to  say  it  over  again." 

Hilda  took  no  notice  of  her  petulance.  She  would 
not  have  spoken  to  her  like  that  if  — 

"  Ann,  look  at  me  straight,  and  tell  me  whether  you 
did  it  —  yes  or  no." 

Ann's  eyes  came  round  to  hers,  unwillingly,  and  half- 
frightened.  Hilda  read  the  truth  in  them  hefore  Ann 
could  speak. 

She  caught  her  to  her.  "  Oh,  my  poor  little  Ann !  " 
she  cried. 

Ann  wrenched  herself  free.  "  You  are  not  to  say  that 
I  didn't  do  it,"  she  said,  vehemently.  "  You  are  not  to 
tell  that  to  Margaret  Parbury,  or  any  of  the  others.  I 
do  not  say  that  I  didn't  do  it." 

"  You  are  letting  them  think  that  you  did  it  until  — " 

Ann  put  her  hand  over  her  mouth  before  she  could 
finish.  "  You  are  not  to  say  anything,"  she  said.  "  If 
you  say  that  you  think  I  didn't  do  it,  they  will  know 
that  it  came  from  me,  and  I  won't  have  them  say  that." 

Hilda  disengaged  her  hand  and  held  it,  and  Ann  too. 
"  Ann,  darling,"  she  said.  "  If  I  tell  Margaret, 
and  — " 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Ann.  "  You  are  not  to  tell  anybody. 
If  you  do,  I  will  not  speak  to  you  again.  You  won't  be 
my  friend.  You  must  give  me  your  promise  that  you 
won't." 

She  was  so  vehement,  and  the  determination  in  her 
was  so  strong,  that  Hilda  allowed  herself  to  be  over- 
borne.     She  wanted  to  say  that  she  would  tell  Margaret, 


256         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

under  a  promise  of  secrecy.  But  Ann  would  not  let  her 
say  anything.  She  would  not  let  her  put  her  discovery 
into  words,  even  for  herself. 

When  she  had  given  the  promise,  much  against  her 
will,  Ann  became  quieter,  all  of  a  sudden.  She  hid  her 
face  on  Hilda's  shoulder,  and  breathed  a  deep  sigh. 
4*  You  will  talk  to  me  sometimes,  won't  you?  "  she 
said, — "  when  the  others  are  not  there?  It  is  so  miser- 
able to  be  always  alone,  and  to  feel  that  they  all  hate 
me." 

Hilda  was  crying  a  little,  if  Ann  wasn't.  "  Oh,  why 
couldn't  that  silly  girl  — "  she  began.  But  Ann  had  her 
hand  over  her  mouth  again. 

Hilda  kissed  her,  though  she  knew  that  Ann  did  not 
care  about  kissing  among  girls,  and  it  was  not  what  Ann 
would  have  called  a  habitude  of  Hilda's  either.  But 
Ann  returned  the  kiss,  and  said  that  she  could  "  support 
the  consequences  "  better  now. 

XV 

Presently  Hilda  left  Ann,  and  went  back  to  Margaret. 
Margaret  looked  at  her  sharply,  for  the  traces  of  emo- 
tion were  still  apparent  on  her  face. 

"  She  won't  sign  the  paper,"  she  said. 

Margaret  looked  disappointed.  "  I  did  hope  you'd 
have  been  able  to  persuade  her,"  she  said.  "  Was  she 
cheeky  to  you?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  Margaret,  I'm  awfully  sorr}7  for  the  poor 
little  thing.  She  won't  give  in,  but  she's  feeling  it 
dreadfully." 

"  Well,  she  deserves  to  feel  it.  It's  all  very  well, 
Hilda,  but  it's  either  her  giving  in  or  our  giving  in.  We 
were  quite  right  to  punish  her  for  doing  what  she  did, 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  257 

and  we  simply  can't  allow  her  to  get  the  better  of  us." 

"  But  lots  of  the  girls  are  so  awfully  unkind  to  her, 
especially  — " 

"  My  dear,  that's  entirely  her  fault.  If  she  would 
keep  quiet  everybody  would  just  leave  her  alone." 

"  They  are  really  cruel  to  her  up  in  the  dormitory, 
and  Mabel  doesn't  do  anything  to  stop  them.  She 
wouldn't  tell  me  the  things  they  said ;  but  some  of  them 
must  have  been  pretty  horrible.  She  dreads  going  up 
there." 

Margaret  looked  serious.  "  I'll  say  something  to 
Mabel,"  she  said.  "  But  I  can't  say  much  because  I'm 
not  supposed  to  know.  But  I  do  know  that  it's  bring- 
ing out  all  the  worst  there  is  in  some  girls  —  those  who 
only  want  an  excuse  to  be  spiteful.  I  can  see  that  for 
myself.  Oh,  I'm  sick  of  the  whole  business.  It's  spoil- 
ing everything.  But  it's  all  that  tiresome  child's  fault. 
She  is  badly  in  the  wrong.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I 
do,  Hilda.  Of  course  she  is  attractive,  and  has  heaps 
of  good  points ;  but  you  ought  not  to  let  that  weigh  with 
you  against  what  she  did,  and  all  the  harm  she's  doing 
to  the  school  now.  I  was  half  afraid  you  would,  when  I 
let  you  go  and  talk  to  her.  You  see  you  come  back  sym- 
pathizing with  her,  and  yet  you  haven't  done  anything  to 
move  her." 

"  I  did  my  best,"  said  Hilda,  rather  weakly.  She 
was  in  a  very  difficult  position.  She  blamed  herself  for 
having  promised  Ann  that  she  would  keep  the  truth 
absolutely  to  herself,  but  did  not  know  that  she  had  had 
very  little  to  do  with  it,  as  Ann,  in  spite  of  her  youth, 
could  at  any  time  have  imposed  her  will  upon  her,  if  she 
were  determined  to  do  so. 

But  Margaret  was  disturbed  by  her  own  difficulties. 
"  She  simply  sits  there  and  defies  us  all,"  she  said.     "  If 


258  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

she  holds  out  till  the  end  of  the  week,  as  I  suppose  she 
will  now,  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Miss  Sutor,  and  admit 
that  none  of  us  can  do  anything  with  her.  Of  course 
she'll  he  punished  again  for  what  she  did,  but  that  won't 
do  us  any  good.  I  know  what  Miss  Sutor  will  say.  If 
we  can't  make  our  authority  felt,  eveo  by  sending  a  girl 
to  Coventry  for  a  week,  there  must  be  something  wrong 
in  the  way  we  exercise  it." 

"  There  wouldn't  he  with  you,"  said  Hilda,  "  but  there 
would  be  with  Mabel  Finney,  and  some  of  the  others,  if 
they  just  take  a  pleasure  in  tormenting  her." 

"  They  ought  not  to  do  that.  But  /  haven't  done  it, 
and  I  can't  do  anything  with  her.  She's  fond  of  you, 
but  you  can't  either.  She  seems  just  to  have  got  over 
you.  Bother  the  little  imp !  I've  a  good  mind  to  go 
straight  to  Miss  Sutor  and  tell  her  now." 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  do  that,  Margaret.  Miss  Sutor 
told  her  that  if  she  were  reported  to  her  again  she 
would  tell  Lady  Sinclair,  and  ask  her  to  take  her  away. 
She  told  me  that  before." 

"  I  wish  she  would  take  her  away.  No,  I  don't  mean 
that.      She's  all  right  when  she  is  all  right." 

"  Margaret,  I  believe  she  was  afraid  that  Miss  Sutor 
would  be  told,  and  that's  why  she  was  so  cheeky  to  all 
of  you."     Ann  had  told  her  as  much  as  that. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  She  wanted  you  to  send  her  to  Coventry  instead." 

"  But  we  shouldn't  have  done  anything,  if  she'd  be- 
haved properly.  Fancy  doing  a  thing  like  that  and 
not  being  sorry  for  it !  Her  naughtiness  isn't  all  high 
spirits  and  cleverness,  you  know,  Hilda.  I  call  that 
really  bad  in  a  child.  And  the  way  she  behaved  to 
Mary!     Didn't  you  point  all  that  out  to  her?  " 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  259 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Hilda,  hastily.  "But  it.  was  the 
paper  she  had  to  sign." 

Margaret  looked  vexed.  "  That  was  Susan,"  she 
said.  "  Her  father  is  a  K.  C,  and  she  must  have  every- 
thing legal.  I  was  against  it,  and  so  was  Nora.  Sup- 
posing we  were  to  give  up  the  paper!  But  no,  we  can't 
do  that.  It  would  be  acknowledging  that  she  had 
beaten  us.  There  was  nothing  unkind  in  it.  It  would 
have  been  easier  for  her  than  to  tell  everybody  she  was 
sorry.  Besides,  she  wasn't  sorry,  whatever  she  may  be 
now.  Why  doesn't  she  go  to  Mary  and  apologize? 
It  would  make  some  difference.  Didn't  you  ask  her 
that?     I  told  you  to." 

Hilda  had  forgotten  this  commission,  but  Mary  Pole- 
gate's  name  had  been  mentioned  between  her  and  Ann. 
"  She  says  she  doesn't  think  Mary  is  as  good  as  she 
looks,"  she  said. 

Margaret  frowned,  and  then  laughed  vexedly.  "  I 
wish  her  chart  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,"  she 
said.  "  But  she  was  nice  enough  about  it,  when  she 
had  once  got  over  her  disappointment." 

"  She  was  just  not  nice  enough.  And  she's  quite 
satisfied  that  Ann's  life  should  be  made  a  burden  to  her 
now.  Last  night,  when  Gertrude  Knight  and  Helen 
Webster  were  laughing  about  some  of  the  spiteful  things 
they  had  been  saying  about  Ann  upstairs,  Mary  sat  and 
listened,  looking  like  a  holy  Cheshire  cat,  and  didn't 
say  a  word.  I  suppose  she's  only  stupid,  but  stupid 
people  can  be  just  as  unkind  as  clever  ones." 

Margaret  passed  this  by.  She  had  her  own  opinion 
of  good  Mary  Polegate,  but  there  was  loyalty  to  be 
observed. 

"  You  know,  Miss  Sutor  will  have  to  be  told  at  the 


260         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

end  of  the  week,'"  she  said.  "  I  think  she's  getting  res- 
tive about  it  now.  Of  course  she  knows  everything 
that's  going  on.      She  always  does." 

"  Do  you  think  she  knows  about  the  chart  being 
spoilt?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Miss  Hastings  will  have  told  her,  and 
about  the  Coventry  too.  She'll  let  it  go  on  till  the  end 
of  the  week,  but  I  shall  have  to  tell  her  on  Sunday.  I 
shan't  on  Saturday,  because  of  her  birthday." 

"  The  week  won't  be  over  till  Monday  morning,  when 
the  Coventry  began." 

Hilda  Lang  would  be  back  on  Monday  morning. 
Her  father,  who  had  been  to  the  school,  had  said  so. 

"  As  Ann  is  a  day-pupil,  it  will  be  over  for  her  on 
Saturday  evening,  when  she  goes  home,  after  the  con- 
cert. 

"  Miss  Sutor  is  going  to  tea  with  Lady  Sinclair  on 
Sunday.  Ann  told  me  so.  Don't  tell  her  till  Monday, 
Margaret." 

"  Very  well.     It  doesn't  make  much  difference. 

Hilda  knew  that  it  would  make  a  good  deal.  The 
bell  rang  for  tea,  and  they  went  in  together. 

XVI 

Ann  was  summoned  to  Margaret  Parbury  again  the 
next  morning.  Upheld  by  the  knowledge  of  Hilda's 
sympathy,  she  had  come  bright  and  fresh  to  the  day's 
campaign.  Her  wounds  were  deep,  but  she  could  hide 
them  better  now.  It  was  Hilda  who  had  met  her  in  the 
cloakroom  and  told  her  to  go  to  Margaret.  She  was 
feeling  almost  happy  for  the  moment. 

Margaret  looked  at  her  in  baffled  surprise,  as  she 
came    in    smiling.     Wasn't    it    possible    to    touch    this 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  261 

child's  conscience?     She  had  a  suspicion  that  Hilda  had 
allowed  her  to  "  get  over  "  her  again. 

"Did  Hilda  tell  you  what  I  wanted  you  for?"  she 
asked. 

"  No,"  said  Ann. 

"  We  have  decided  to  take  your  subscription  for  Miss 
Sutor's  present.  Our  objections  to  it  are  just  the  same 
as  they  were,  but  it  would  look  afterwards  as  if  we  had 
tried  to  punish  you  by  not  letting  you  join,  and  we 
don't  want  that." 

Margaret  was  always  very  direct.  She  had  worked 
hard  for  this,  and  that  was  the  reason  she  had  given 
to  the  other  monitors ;  so  she  gave  it  to  Ann. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Ann  gratefully.  "  I'm  very 
glad  of  that.  It  was  a  trouble  to  me  that  she  wouldn't 
see  my  name  in  the  list."  It  crossed  her  quick  mind  to 
ask  whether  Mary  Polegate  was  going  to  illuminate  the 
list,  but  she  rejected  the  temptation  and  asked  instead: 
"  Is  it  permitted  to  me  to  see  the  present?  " 

Was  this  veiled  impertinence?  One  never  knew,  with 
Ann's  somewhat  peculiar  English.  The  present  had 
been  bought  two  days  before,  and  had  naturally  not 
been  shown  to  Ann.  But  as  she  was  to  share  in  it,  she 
had,  of  course,  a  right  to  see  it. 

Margaret  showed  her  the  present  —  a  chased  silver 
rose  bowl.  Ann  looked  at  it  with  her  head  on  one  side. 
"  It  is  epatant,"  she  said,  "  and  exactly  what  I  should 
have  chosen  myself.     Thank  you,  Margaret." 

Margaret  still  had  her  suspicions;  but  Ann  had 
spoken  nicely.  She  would  soon  know  if  she  meant  to  be 
cheeky.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you  once  more,"  she  said. 
"  You  have  had  three  days  of  Coventry  now.  I  should 
think  you  must  be  getting  rather  tired  of  it,  aren't 
you?" 


262         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  tired  of  it,"  said  Ann,  with  a  sigh. 
"  I  shall  be  very  glad  when  the  week  is  past." 

"  Why  should  it  go  on  for  a  week?  You  won't  get 
out  of  it,  you  know,  when  the  week  is  past.  Miss  Sutor 
will  have  to  be  told,  and  I'm  quite  sure  she  won't  over- 
look it  altogether,  even  though  you  have  been  to  Cov- 
entry. If  you  say  }'ou  are  sorry  now,  it  will  be  all  over. 
Surely,  you  must  be  a  little  sorry,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  sorry.  But  I  can't  sign  the  paper, 
Margaret.  Please  don't  ask  me  to.  As  you  are  gentle 
to  me,  and  have  shown  me  the  present,  I  don't  want  to 
displease  you.  But  I  have  made  a  promise  to  myself 
not  to  sign  the  paper." 

Margaret  had  also  worked  hard  to  get  the  tiresome 
paper  out  of  the  way,  as  she  wanted  it  all  ended  now, 
even  at  the  cost  of  giving  way  to  Ann  a  little.  But  she 
had  not  been  successful.  Susan  Norris  had  wavered, 
but  good  Mary  Polegate  had  said  that,  although  she 
bore  no  malice  towards  Ann  for  what  she  had  done,  she 
thought  she  ought  to  be  made  to  sign  the  paper  as  an 
example. 

Margaret  saw  that  Ann  would  be  inflexible  on  this 
point,  and  wasted  no  further  time  on  it.  But  she 
thought  that  if  she  could  be  persuaded  to  apologize 
to  Mary  Polegate  there  might  be  found  a  way  out. 
"  If  you  are  sorry,  as  you  say  you  are  now,"  she  said, 
"  will  you  go  and  tell  Mary  so?  " 

Ann  considered.  "  I  don't  want  to  do  that,"  she 
said.  "  It  would  be  a  little  hypocritic  now.  I  am 
not  so  sorry  for  her  as  I  was  at  first.  I  think  she  finds 
my  being  in  Coventry,  for  what  was  done  to  her  chart, 
more  amusing  than  if  it  had  not  been  done  at  all." 

This  searching  piece  of  psychology  so  illuminated 
Margaret's  own  impatient  feelings  towards  good  Mary 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  263 

Polegate  that  she  was  unable  to  press  the  suggestion. 
Still,  it  was  Ann  who  was  to  be  thanked  for  having 
brought  out  this  and  some  other  unhandsome  traits 
of  character  which  had  hitherto  slumbered.  "  You 
won't  do  that,  and  you  won't  do  anything,"  she  said 
impatiently.     "  It's  no  good  trying  to  help  you." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  wouldn't  do  it,"  said  Ann.  "  I  will, 
if  you  tell  me  to.  I  was  only  trying  to  explicate  to 
you  what  I  felt  about  it." 

It  was  a  new  turn  in  Ann's  baffling  character  to  be 
willing  to  do  as  she  was  told.  "  It's  a  pity  you  didn't 
behave  like  this  at  first,"  said  Margaret.  "  If  you  had, 
you  needn't  have  been  sent  to  Coventry  at  all,  and  per- 
haps you  needn't  have  signed  the  paper,  as  you  seem 
to  object  to  it  so  much.  You  were  —  very  rude,  and 
of  course  it  has  been  difficult  to  forget  it." 

"  I  was  sorry  for  that  too,  afterwards,"  said  Ann. 
"  Mabel  Finney  told  the  other  girls  up  in  the  dormitory, 
and  she  spoke  so  loud  that  I  couldn't  help  hearing  her, 
that  you  were  very  gentle  about  me,  when  you  found 
it  all  out.  If  I  had  known  that,  I  shouldn't  have  been 
rude  to  you.  At  least,  not  so  rude,"  she  added,  re- 
membering that  a  certain  amount  of  rudeness  had  been 
necessary  for  her  purpose,  and  having  a  strict  regard 
for  truth. 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  should  suppose  I 
shouldn't  be  gentle,  as  you  call  it,"  said  Margaret, 
rather  touched,  in  spite  of  herself.  "  You  didn't  give 
me  a  chance, —  or  anybody  else." 

She  was  at  her  wits'  end.  She  knew  that  Ann  would 
not  sign  the  paper,  and  it  was  of  no  use  to  send  her  to 
Mary  Polegate  with  a  half  apology.  In  the  present 
state  of  feeling  against  her,  it  would  be  insisted  on  that 
she  should  go  through  with  her  Coventry,  and  that  Miss 


264         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

Sutor  should  be  told  afterwards.  There  were  those 
who  were  already  looking  forward  to  Miss  Sutor's  be- 
ing told. 

"  I  shan't  be  rude  to  you  any  more,"  said  Ann.  "  I 
respect  you  too  much  now,  Margaret." 

Margaret's  mouth  relaxed.  "  Well,  I'm  glad  of  that, 
at  any  rate,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  apologize  to  the 
other  monitors,  as  you  have  to  me?  That  might  do 
something." 

Ann  considered  again.  "  Do  3Tou  mean  all  of  them 
together?  "  she  asked. 

This  would  be  no  good.  Margaret  couldn't  get  them 
together  to  be  sweetly  apelogized  to  for  the  smaller 
offence,  while  the  greater  would  in  no  way  be  purged. 
"  No,  I  mean  to  all  of  them  separately,"  she  said,  "  as 
you  have  done  to  me.  /  am  quite  willing  to  accept  your 
apology." 

"  Thank  you,  Margaret.  I  would  apologize  to  Nora 
O'Brien,  but  I  was  only  a  little  rude  to  her,  and  she 
laughed.  And  I  would  to  Rosamund  Felstead,  though 
she  was  rather  rude  to  me,  and  wanted  to  send  me  to 
Coventry.  I  told  Susan  Norris  that  she  wouldn't  be 
likely  to  use  French  words  justly;  but  perhaps  she 
would,  if  she  searched  for  them  in  a  dictionary." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  pretend  to  apologize,  and  make 
it  an  excuse  for  being  impertinent  again.  We  have  had 
quite  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Well,  yes,  I  would  apologize  to  Susan,  properly.  I 
would  to  Mary  Polegate  too,  as  she  has  been  injured, 
and  I  said  she  was  like  a  cliien  de  fa'wnce,  which  I  cer- 
tainly ought  not  to  have  done." 

"  You  didn't  say  that  to  her." 

"  No.      I  am  not  quite  as  bad  as  that." 

"  Then  there'd  be  no  need  to  repeat  it." 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  265 

"  Very  well.  I  should  be  glad  not  to,  for  I  am,  to 
say  true,  rather  ashamed  of  it.  I  would  apologize  to 
Mary  Polegate  for  being  rude,  also  for  her  chart  being 
spoilt.  I  will  not  apologize  to  Mabel  Finney  for  any- 
thing, whatever  it  may  be ;  and  when  I  come  away  from 
Coventry,  if  I  am  allowed  to  rest  at  this  school,  I  will 
never  speak  to  her  again  if  I  can  help  it." 

She  said  this  firmly,  with  her  eyes  on  Margaret's,  and 
Margaret's  dropped  before  them.  It  was  extraor- 
dinary how  this  troublesome  child,  who  had  done  an  in- 
excusable thing,  and  was  under  just  punishment  for  it, 
could  abash  one. 

But  was  the  punishment  she  was  under  in  all  respects 
just?  "If  you  have  any  complaint  to  make  against 
any  girl,"  Margaret  said,  "  you  can  bring  it  to  me,  or 
of  course  to  the  mistresses,  if  you  like;  and  if  it  is  of  a 
monitor,  I  can  bring  it  before  the  other  monitors." 

"  No,"  said  Ann.     "  I  would  rather  defend  myself." 

"  But  you  defend  yourself  by  attacking  others ;  and 
that  makes  it  worse." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  do  that  any  more.  I  have  prom- 
ised myself  not  to,  after  what  Hilda  said  to  me  yester- 
day. Perhaps  I  shall  make  a  pleasantry  sometimes, 
if  I  think  of  something  amusing,  but  not  with  Mabel 
Finney,  and  others  who  resemble  her.  I  have  my  feel- 
ings, Margaret,  and  they  have  hurt  them  very  much. 
Whatever  it  may  be  that  they  say  now,  I  shall  make  no 
response." 

Margaret  had  spoken  to  Mabel  Finney  the  evening 
before  about  the  girls  who  were  going  too  far  in  their 
tormenting  of  Ann,  and  had  found  her  irresponsive,  and 
also  inclined  to  be  offended  at  being  implicitly  charged 
with  the  same  offence.  As  head  girl,  Margaret  had 
no  more  authority  than  the  other  monitors,  and  none 


266         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

at  all  over  the  monitors  themselves.  She  was  only  their 
mouthpiece. 

"  Would  you  like  to  change  in  my  room  instead  of  in 
the  cubicle?  "  she  asked.  She  was  quite  prepared  to 
show  her  disapproval  of  Mabel  Finney's  departure  from 
the  monitor's  code,  by  taking  Ann  under  her  special 
protection,  now  that  Ann  herself  had  given  her  the  in- 
formation. "  For  the  present,*'  she  added.  She  did 
not  want  her  cherished  privacy  permanently  invaded. 

"  Thank  you  very  much  indeed,  Margaret,"  said  Ann 
gratefully.  "  Of  course  I  should  like  it.  But  I  had 
better  rest  in  the  cubicle.  I  won't  let  them  say  that 
they  have  chased  me  out.  It  is  only  for  two  days 
longer,  and  I  can  support  the  consequences  until  then." 

The  bell  rang.  "  Well,  you  must  go  now,"  said 
Margaret.  "  What  a  lot  of  trouble  you  are  giving  us, 
Ann !     W7hy  did  you  play  that  silly  trick?  " 

Ann  passed  this  by.  "  Am  I  to  apologize  to  the  other 
monitors?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Margaret  shortly.  "  Go  along  quickly, 
or  you'll  be  late." 

XVII 

As  Margaret  went  down  to  her  own  class,  it  occurred 
to  her  with  vexed  amusement  that  Ann  had  done  to  her 
exactly  what  she  had  complained  that  Hilda  had  let  her 
do.      She  had  "  got  over  "  her. 

In  the  course  of  the  highly  reasonable  conversation 
that  had  passed  between  them,  which  Ann  had  supported 
with  a  dignity  at  least  as  great  as  her  own,  Ann  had 
actually  announced  her  intention  of  continuing  to  ig- 
nore the  sentence  of  Coventry,  if  it  suited  her,  and  she 
had  not  even  thought  at  the  moment  of  rebuking  her. 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  267 

At  the  end,  Margaret  had  been  more  anxious  to  save 
Ann  from  the  consequences  of  her  punishment  than  to 
bring  that  punishment  home;  and  she  had  asked  her 
why  she  had  "  played  that  silly  trick,"  as  if  her  fault 
had  been  no  more  than  a  piece  of  childish  mischief. 

It  seemed,  indeed,  little  more  than  that  to  her  now. 
They  had  all  been  hypnotized,  for  two  whole  terms,  by 
Mary  Polegate,  with  her  illuminated  chart  of  the  Kings 
of  Juda  and  Israel  —  a  silly  piece  of  work  enough,  and 
not  even  semi-sacred,  as  she  had  given  it  the  air  of  being. 
Of  course,  it  was  a  shame  to  spoil  it,  and  it  had  been 
right  to  sympathize  with  Mary's  distress.  But  it 
seemed  plain  now  that  Ann  had  not  meant  to  spoil  it,  and 
although  she  had  gone  much  too  far  in  tampering  with 
it  at  all,  she  had  pricked  a  bubble  that  had  turned  out 
to  be  even  more  deceptive  than  bubbles  usually  are. 

As  for  her  impertinence,  there  seemed  to  have  been 
a  reason  for  that,  if  it  was  true  what  Hilda  had  said 
that  she  was  afraid  of  their  telling  Miss  Sutor.  It 
threw  rather  a  different  light  on  the  picture,  if  one 
thought  of  the  six  big  girls  in  authority  pluckilv  faced 
by  the  single  small  one,  who  was  all  the  time  frightened 
of  what  might  be  done  to  her.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  Ann's  pluck,  and  as  for  her  impertinence,  it  had 
not  been  used  to  hurt  feelings,  but  only  dignity. 

Margaret  suspected,  as  she  thought  it  all  over  during 
a  dull  lesson,  that  there  was  after  all  something  wrong 
in  the  quality  of  the  dignity  that  was  being  fought  for 
now.  She  had  always  hated  the  sentimentality  that 
led  to  big  girls  spoiling  little  ones,  and  had  aimed  at 
creating  a  tradition  which  would  make  the  big  girls 
keep  more  to  themselves.  But  it  had  not  turned  out 
quite  as  she  had  wished.  It  would  have  been  far  better 
to  have  done  what  Hilda  Strangways  would  probably 


268  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

do  when  she  came  to  take  her  place,  and  encourage  a 
less  artificial  intercourse  between  girls  of  all  ages,  while 
setting  her  face  just  as  strongly  against  sentimentality. 
But  she  had  not  had  the  art  to  do  that.  She  much 
preferred  the  society  of  girls  of  about  her  own  age,  and 
was  without  Hilda's  sympathetic  understanding  of 
younger  ones.  The  lack  of  it  had  led  her  to  miscalcu- 
late this  situation  entirely.  Hilda  had  found  out  at 
once  that  there  were  considerations  behind  Ann's 
naughtiness  that  ought  to  have  been  taken  into  account 
before  passing  sentence  on  her,  while  she  herself  had 
seen  nothing  that  was  not  apparent  on  the  surface. 

And  how  were  the  monitors  supporting  the  dignity 
which  it  was  Ann's  chief  fault  to  have  assailed? 

She  was  their  mouthpiece,  but  had  been  led  to  ex- 
press more  than  one  decision  that  she  had  not  agreed 
with.  Mabel  Finney,  who  had  never  been  a  friend  of 
hers,  was  behaving  in  a  way  that  would  get  her  turned 
out  of  her  monitorship  if  Miss  Sutor  knew  of  it.  The 
sentence  of  Coventry  was  not  meant  to  be  used  as  an 
instrument  of  torment,  as  she  was  allowing  the  girls  in 
her  dormitory  to  use  it,  and  apparently  using  it  herself. 
Mary  Polegate  had  always  been  considered  to  have  a 
good  influence  in  the  school,  but  she  was  now  showing 
herself  only  smug  and  complacent;  and  if  it  was  true 
that  she  had  sat  by  and  listened  to  what  Hilda  had 
said  she  had,  without  protesting,  then  Ann's  criticism 
of  her  —  that  she  was  not  as  good  as  she  looked  — 
would  seem  to  be  justified.  Nora  O'Brien  was  too  care- 
less and  light-hearted  to  carry  much  weight,  except 
by  her  frank  and  genial  nature.  She  had  been  willing 
to  follow  Margaret's  lead  throughout  this  affair,  but 
the  only  expression  of  opinion  she  had  advanced  of  her 
own  had  been  that  "  a  child  as  amusing  as  that  ought 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  269 

not  to  be  squashed,"  which  had  not  helped  matters.  If 
Ann  had  apologized  separately  to  her,  she  would  prob- 
ably have  egged  her  on  to  say  something  funny,  and 
then  laughed.  Susan  Norris  was  prim  and  well-mean- 
ing, but  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be  affected  by  Ann's 
gibe  at  her  French,  which,  however,  she  had  brought 
on  herself. 

Rosamund  Felstead  was  Margaret's  particular  friend. 
They  were  neighbours  at  home,  and  had  many  tastes  in 
common ;  but  their  characters  were  very  different. 
Rosamund  was  as  sentimental  as  Margaret  was  the  re- 
verse. Margaret  knew  very  well,  and  hated  to  know 
it,  that  the  reason  why  they  were  just  now  more  than 
usually  polite  to  one  another,  and  Rosamund  had  not 
backed  her  up  in  this  affair,  was  that  upon  Ann's  first 
arrival  at  the  school  she  had  taken  a  violent  fancy  to 
her,  to  which  Ann  had  refused  to  respond.  She  had 
wanted  to  see  her  punished,  but  if  Ann  had  gone  to  her 
with  an  apology,  she  would  have  enjo3Ted  the  luxury  of 
a  possibly  tearful  scene  with  her,  and  tried  to  coddle 
her  into  penitence. 

Margaret  thought  that  even  if  Ann  had  done  wrong, 
she  was  not  showing  up  badly  beside  those  who  were 
imposing  their  displeasure  on  her.  Her  independence, 
though  she  was  apt  to  carry  it  rather  far,  was  exactly 
the  quality  that  made  headway  against  the  sentimental- 
ity that  Margaret  hated.  There  had  never  been  a  girl 
come  to  the  school  who  had  had  such  a  dead  set.  made 
at  her  as  Ann.  Because  of  the  different  position  she 
was  in  from  the  rest,  bringing  the  rich  glamour  of  her 
home  to  bear  upon  the  school  life,  because  of  her  charm- 
ing person  and  gay  audacity,  because  of  her  funny  ways 
of  speech,  and  her  appearance  of  being  much  younger 
than  she  was,  she  might  have  been  the  spoilt  darling 


270         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

of  the  whole  school.  But  she  had  shaken  all  the  un- 
wholesome adulation  from  off  her  thin  shoulders,  and 
had  quickly  taken  her  place  as  leader  among  girls  of 
her  own  standing.  And  she  had  been  the  right  sort  of 
leader,  except  in  her  tendency  to  encourage  mild  in- 
subordination. The  girls  of  her  class  were  a  much 
brighter,  healthier  lot  than  when  they  had  been  led  by 
Helen  Webster. 

Well,  the  Coventry  would  have  to  go  through,  but 
Margaret  would  do  all  she  could  to  see  that  it  was  kept 
in  spirit  as  well  as  in  letter,  and  when  she  told  Miss 
Sutor  about  it  she  would  tell  her  everything.  She  was 
rather  surprised  at  the  feeling  of  dismay  which  came  to 
her  when  she  thought  of  the  possibility  of  Ann  being 
taken  away  from  the  school.  She  had  not  thought  that 
she  had  it  in  her  to  care  whether  any  girl  much  younger 
than  herself  was  there  or  not.  Oh,  decidedly,  Ann  had 
got  over  her.     Bother  the  little  imp ! 


XVIII 

It  was  no  part  of  Ann's  new  code  of  behaviour  to  show 
herself  meek  and  subdued  before  the  whole  school.  The 
"  pleasantries  "  which  she  had  warned  Margaret  might 
demand  expression  came  more  readily  to  her  mind  now 
that  her  burden  was  lighter,  and  she  led  them  a  dance, 
just  as  she  led  Lizzie  a  dance  at  home,  but  without  al- 
lowing herself  to  be  hustled  in  return  into  losing  her 
temper,  as  had  happened  during  the  second  and  third 
days  of  her  Coventry. 

As  it  was  now  pretty  evident  that  she  would  not  give 
in  before  the  week  was  up,  she  might  be  said  to  have 
won  the  first  round  of  the  contest  already,  and  the  ma- 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  271 

jority  were  looking  forward  with  anticipations  that 
were  either  eager  or  fearful  according  to  their  natures 
to  the  second  round,  in  which  Miss  Sutor  would  enter 
the  arena.  If  Ann  had  not  been  goaded  during  those 
two  days  into  sundry  attacks  that  had  embittered  feel- 
ing against  her,  she  would  have  had  more  than  half  the 
school  on  her  side  already ;  and  when  she  reverted  to 
providing  amusement  for  them  instead  of  offence  the 
feeling  began  to  subside  once  more. 

But  forces  had  been  set  in  motion  that  were  not  eas- 
ily brought  to  rest.  In  her  own  class,  Helen  Webster 
had  stepped  into  her  former  position,  vice  Ann  deposed, 
and  it  would  take  some  time  to  undo  the  effect  of  those 
two  stormy  days,  in  which  Ann  had  run  amok  among 
all  her  former  friends,  and  reduced  many  of  them  to 
the  necessity  of  declaring  indignantly  that  whether  she 
were  in  Coventry  or  not  they  would  never  speak  to  her 
again. 

She  took  the  bull  by  the  horns  during  the  change  from 
first  lesson  to  second,  taken  by  a  different  mistress. 
"  Well,  girls,"  she  said  brightly,  "  I  have  thought  it 
over  and  I  have  decided  to  pardon  you.  You  were  in 
bad  humour  yesterday  but  perhaps  it  was  also  a  little 
my  fault,  as  I  am  too  prompt  to  call  people  sales  betes, 
and  there  are  not  many  among  you  who  truly  deserve 
that  title." 

Mademoiselle  came  in  at  this  moment  to  take  a  lesson 
in  geography.  But  she  could  always  be  diverted  into 
bypaths,  if  handled  expertly,  and  Ann  had  frequently 
succeeded  in  having  the  greater  part  of  the  half  hour 
devoted  to  polite  conversation  which  had  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  the  configuration  of  the  earth. 

Ann  was  not  by  way  of  harassing  mistresses  just 
now,  having  enough  on  her  hands  already.     But  when 


272  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

Mademoiselle  had  taken  her  seat,  with  a  brisk  air  of 
expecting  a  concentrated  attention  on  the  matter  in 
hand,  which  was  justified  by  no  previous  experience, 
Helen  Webster  said :  "  Mademoiselle,  I  wanted  to  ask 
you  before  you  begin,  whether  it  is  the  custom  in  France 
for  nice  people  —  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  mean  —  to 
call  each  other  dirty  beasts." 

Mademoiselle  was  horrified  at  such  an  idea,  and  broke 
into  voluble  disclaimers  of  any  impoliteness  whatever 
among  nice  people  in  France. 

"  Then  a  girl  who  was  continually  saying  '  sales 
betes  '  to  other  girls  couldn't  belong  to  really  nice 
people,  I  suppose." 

Mademoiselle  was  understood  to  say  that  such  lan- 
guage might  possibly  be  picked  up  from  urchins  in  the 
gutter,  but  that  otherwise  no  girl  of  good  parentage 
would  have  ever  so  much  as  heard  such  an  expression, 
which  was  very  shocking,  and  if  she  used  it  in  the  hear- 
ing of  her  parents  would  be  severely  punished.  She 
trusted  that  no  girl  in  this  school  would  ever  permit  it 
to  be  heard  from  her. 

Here  she  looked  at  Ann,  who  might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  have  taken  a  bright  part  in  the  conversation 
long  before  this.  But  Ann  was  reading  her  geography 
book,  in  which  she  appeared  to  be  deeply  interested. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Helen  Webster/  "  I  thought  it 
must  be  like  that ;  but  we  have  heard  such  a  lot  of  ex- 
traordinary French  expressions  lately  that  it  is  difficult 
to  know  what  you  may  say  and  what  you  mayn't." 

It  was  not  quite  cricket  to  seek  to  embroil  Ann  with 
a  mistress,  and  although  Mademoiselle  was  hardly  like 
other  mi>tr'j<ses,  Marie  Baxter,  who  knew  French  bet- 
ter than  the  re^t,  said:  "  Saying  sale  bete  isn't  quite 
the  same  as  saying  '  dirty  beast,'  is  it,  Mademoiselle?  " 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  273 

Mademoiselle  saw  very  little  difference,  which  might 
have  been  accounted  for  by  her  having  been  onl\ 
months  in  England.     "  Sale  bete  "  was  a  horribli 
pression,  and  quite  unallowable  to  well-nurtured  girls. 
"  Ann   Sinclair,  you  who  have  been  well   brought   up 
would  never  use  such  words,  I  am  sure,"  she  said. 

Ann  looked  up.  "  Plait-il,  Mademoiselle?  I  was 
reading  in  my  geography." 

"  Didn't  vou  hear  what  Helen  Webster  has  been  say- 
ing?  " 

"  I  don't  occupy  myself  with  anything  that  Helen 
Webster  says,"  said  Ann;  and  added,  as  she  returned 
to  her  book :     "  C'est  une  sale  bete." 

She  was  apparently  oblivious  of  the  storm  that  raged 
above  her  head,  and  turned  a  page  in  the  middle  of  it 
with  keen  interest  in  what  was  on  the  other  side.  She 
had  not  quite  kept  to  her  determination  to  treat  those 
who  had  put  themselves  beyond  the  pale  of  her  forgive- 
ness as  if  they  didn't  exist.  But  she  could  always  take 
it  up  again.  She  took  it  up  now,  as  Helen  Webster 
supplied  fuel  to  Mademoiselle's  denunciations,  and  tried 
to  get  as  many  of  the  girls  as  possible  to  share  in  her 
indignation.  Helen  said  things  that  would  have 
"  drawn  "  her  for  a  certainty  the  day  before  —  things 
that  Mademoiselle  could  hardly  have  understood,  or 
they  would  have  shocked  her  as  much  as  Ann's  speech 
had  done.  Ann  blushed  at  them  —  she  could  never  help 
that  —  but  maintained  a  calm  composure,  and  when 
Mademoiselle's  horror  had  subsided  to  safety  point 
looked  up  and  asked  with  a  shade  of  weariness :  "  Can't 
we  do  a  little  geography,  Mademoiselle?  I  have  been 
reading  about  the  town  of  Coventry;  but  I  have  fin- 
ished now,  and  am  ready  to  learn  something  new." 

Ann's  absence  of  real  offence  against  most  of  the  girls 


274         THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

in  her  -;>ld  gradually  in  her  favour,  and  B 

to  whor:  .  :>egan  to 

show  *o  tbem  in  her  true  colours.     i 

always  had  the  effect  of  closing  ..  .  and  her 

-irnmrm  -  .  had  be- 

ot  them  again,  and  was  looking  for- 
ward, no'  -  hap- 

rela- 
Ann    gained    ground    and 
but  there  w_. 
and  there 

enough,  or  she  would  not  have  ed  leader 

before.  She  was  able  to  keep  up  a  good  deal  of  irrita- 
tion, and  by  the  thx  Sal  av  came  round  Ann  had 
not  quite  made  up  the  groun_  . 

the  first  day. 

XIX 

In    the  dormitory.    Heler     Webster    had    Gertrude 
_   t  to  back  her  up,  and  Mabt    I  -rage 

^hile  pretending  to  keep  her  : 

y  had  had  a  row  roya 
-  morning  school.      S  s 

at  the  end  of  the  term,  and  allowed  her  .     eable 

nature  and  her  jealousy  of  M      §       t  to  have  fuL 

monitor  ould 

■  not  to  Margaret 

deal  too  much  on  L 
she   had    allowed    Hilda    Strangways    to    break    Ann's 

ght  I 

"ion  to  >  :d  her 

dormitory.     If  she  wanted  to  know  what  was  hapj 
there,  she  could  ask  the  head  of  it,  and  not  set  spies 


AUDAC1    CS   ANN 

upon  her:  with  a  good  deal  more  that  caused  Marj 
to  turn  from  her  in  d>_  the  intimation  thii 

should  call  a  monitors*  meeting  about  it. 

T*he  meeting  was  called  after  dinner,  and  did 
little  good.  It  was  unfortunate  that  Hilda's  unofficial 
embassy  had  been  discovered.  Legal  Susan  Norris  felt 
obliged  to  take  this  point,  and  it  interfered  with  her 
grasp  of  the  case  as  a  whole.  She  submitted  that  Hilda 
should  be  called  as  a  witness,  and  this  was  done. 

Hilda,  who  was  feeling  unstrung  and  emotional,  was 
in  a  white  heat  of  indignation  over  Ann's  wrongs,  and 
did  not  sufficiently  distinguish  between  those  whic 
alone  knew  of,  and  those  which  the  meeting  had  been 
called  to  discuss.  Even  Margaret  thought  she  went 
too  far  in  her  advocacy,  and  Rosamund  Felstead 
roundly  accused  her  of  "  slopping  over  "  about 
because  she  was  pretty.  She  vehemently  attacked  Ma- 
bel Finnev  for  what  was  going  on  in  her  dormitory,  and 
then  turned  upon  Mary  Polegate,  and  included  her  in 
enunciation.  Good  Mary  Polegate  was  naturally 
scandalized  at  having  any  slur  ca-t  upon  her  blameless 
r.d  rebutted  the  accusation,  even  going  to  the 
length  of  offering  a  weak  defence  of  the  speeches  she 
had  overheard,  when  Hilda  repeated  them. 

N :ra  O'Brien  looked  at  her,  as  if  she  saw  her  for  the 
i  said:     '"I:  that  sort  of  thing  is  going 
on,  and  isn't  being  stopped,  I  vote  we  bring  the  Coventry 
to  an  er 

rgaret  would  willingly  have  done  this,  as  she  could 
have  told  Miss  -  utor,  and  got  the  hatefu.  -  over 

before  the  festivities  of  Saturday.  But  there  was  no 
majority  for  it,  and  the  meeting  ended  in  what  was 
almost  a  wrangle,  one  side  wanting  the  younger  girls 
to  be  warned  against  attacks  upon  Ann,  under  the  guise 


276  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

of  talking  about  her,  the  other  contending  that  she  in- 
vited them  herself. 

Susan  Norris  came  out  rather  strongly  on  the  side 
of  the  plaintiff  here,  advancing  the  plea  that  to  talk  at 
a  girl  in  Coventry  was  the  same  thing  as  talking  to 
her,  and  broke  the  letter  as  well  as  the  spirit  of  the 
punishment.  She  argued  it  with  forensic  ability,  but 
it  was  met  by  the  counterplea  that  Ann  broke  all  the 
rules  of  Coventry  herself,  and  could  not  be  allowed 
complete  immunity  of  attack. 

The  decision  arrived  at  was  that  spiteful  attacks 
were  to  be  discouraged ;  but  it  was  very  unsatisfactory, 
as  no  one  had  admitted  to  having  encouraged  such  at- 
tacks,  and  Hilda  had  further  upset  the  court  by  an- 
nouncing, before  she  left  the  witness  box,  that  there  was 
no  justice  to  be  expected  from  it,  and  she  should  go 
to  Coventry  with  Ann  herself.  It  was  not  supposed 
that  she  had  really  meant  this,  but  without  the  threat 
there  would  probably  have  been  no  decision  at  all. 

But  Hilda  did  mean  it,  and  was  glad  enough  to  have 
the  excuse  for  doing  what  she  would  have  done  the  day 
before  if  the  way  had  been  clear. 

Ann  was  at  her  violin  lesson.  There  was  no  time 
to  talk  to  her  before  they  went  up  to  change,  and  Hilda 
did  not  want  to  let  her  know  of  what  she  was  going  to 
do  before  she  could  explain  to  her  how  it  had  come  about, 
and  that  no  confidences  had  been  broken.  This  she 
would  have  no  opportunity  of  doing  until  just  before 
tea-time,  so  Ann  had  to  go  through  two  further  periods 
of  purgatory  in  the  dormitory  before  the  relief  was 
brought  to  her. 

It  need  only  be  said  of  what  went  on,  under  the  thin- 
nest pretence  of  keeping  to  the  monitors'  decision  from 
Mabel  Finney,  that  one  of  the  younger  girls  protested, 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  077 

and  the  other  kept  silence.  Ann's  own  silence  goaded 
her  tormentors,  and  she  went  downstairs  as  white  as  a 
sheet. 

But  there  she' found  Hilda  waiting  for  her,  and  the 
very  worst  of  her  troubles  were  over.  It  was  agreed 
between  them  that  she  should  stay  at  home  the  next 
afternoon  until  lesson  time,  which  her  pride  would  not 
have  permitted  her  to  do  on  her  own  initiative.  With 
Hilda  to  support  her,  she  was  enabled  to  recover  from 
the  late  attacks,  which  had  almost  broken  her  down, 
and  had  the  triumph  of  making  Nora  O'Brien  laugh  at 
tea  by  assuming  the  airs  of  an  invalid,  pressing  upon 
herself  with  anxious  and  tender  solicitude  spoonfuls 
of  tea  and  very  small  pieces  of  bread  and  butter,  and 
protesting  at  every  mouthful  that  indeed  she  could  not 
swallow  another  morsel.  This  comedy  had  the  addi- 
tional advantage  of  relieving  her  of  making  a  meal, 
which  she  found  difficult  at  this  time. 

Hilda's  defiance  of  the  decree  of  Coventry  created  a 
considerable  impression,  which  was  not  entirely  in  Ann's 
favour.  The  spitefulness,  against  which  her  protest 
was  supposed  entirely  to  be  made,  was  confined  to  a  few, 
and  to  have  Hilda  openly  on  her  side  was  considered 
by  the  flouted  majority  to  balance  what  would  other- 
wise have  gained  sympathy  for  her. 

The  much  harassed  Margaret,  now  faced  with  a  com- 
plete rupture  among  the  monitors,  which  reflected  itself 
in  the  whole  school,  was  indignant  with  Hilda  for  taking 
advantage  of  the  well-intentioned  breach  of  legality 
which  they  had  secretly  concerted  between  them. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Margaret,"  Hilda  replied.  "  I  know 
I'm  letting  you  down,  and  if  everything  wrere  as  it  looked 
you'd  have  a  good  right  to  complain.  Perhaps  you  have 
as  it  is,  but  you  know  I  wouldn't  go  against  you  with- 


278  THE  CLINTONS,  ASD  OTHERS 

out  a  very  good  reason,  and  when  everything  comes  out, 
you'll  say  I've  been  right.  So  don't  be  too  angry  with 
me,  my  dear.  You  won't  be,  when  you  know  why  I'm 
doing  it." 

This  was  steering  rather  close  to  the  danger  point, 
but  the  original  cause  of  all  the  trouble  had  receded  so 
far  into  the  background  that  it  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  Margaret  should  guess  the  truth  at  this  stage. 

"  What  is  there  I  don't  know?  "  she  asked.  "I  don't 
think  you  ought  to  do  this,  Hilda,  without  telling  me 
everything." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  everything  till  it's  all  over.  I  wish 
I  could,  but  I've  promised  Ann  that  I  wouldn't.  Poor 
lamb,  I'm  going  to  see  her  through  the  rest  of  it.  I 
wish  I'd  done  at  the  beginning." 

Margaret  thought  that  there  was  some  truth  in  what 
Rosamund  had  said  —  that  Hilda  was  in  danger  of  "  slop- 
ping over  "  about  Ann,  and  turned  from  her  rather  impa- 
tiently. It  was  another  trouble,  added  to  the  many  she 
was  undergoing ;  but  it  would  be  all  over  in  two  days  now. 

No  official  decree  of  Coventry  was  passed  against 
Hilda.  Those  who  would  have  liked  to  see  it  done  were 
not  in  a  strong  enough  position  to  withstand  Mar- 
garet's angry  statement  that  she  had  had  enough  of 
sending  girls  to  Coventry,  and  that  neither  she  nor 
Nora  would  observe  it  against  Hilda.  And  Hilda  was 
much  too  popular  in  the  school  to  have  made  it  possible, 
without  reopening  the  whole  question  in  an  aggravated 
form,  when  it  was  nearing  the  stage  of  settling  itself. 
She  kept  very  quiet  during  Friday  and  Saturday,  and 
nobody  need  talk  to  her  unless  they  wished  to. 

With  these  currents  and  cross-currents  disturbing 
the  school,  the}'  came  to  the  night  of  the  concert,  and 
Ann's  last  ordeal. 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  279 


XX 


The  hall,  on  the  night  of  the  concert,  bore  an  appear- 
ance of  chaste  festivity,  which  formed  a  fitting  back- 
ground for  the  assembled  school,  dressed  in  its  best  silks 
and  laces  and  muslins  and  ribbons,  fluttering  and  tiptoe- 
ing with  enjoyment. 

Flowers  were  banked  about  the  platform,  but  only 
at  the  end  of  the  room  was  there  any  appearance  of 
formality.  There  were  no  rows  of  seats,  but  the  bigger 
tables  had  been  cleared  out,  and  enough  chairs,  arranged 
in  groups,  had  been  provided  for  the  audience,  which 
was  to  include  no  one  not  intimately  connected  with 
the  school,  with  the  exception  of  a  friend  of  Miss 
Sutor's,  on  whose  behalf  she  had  asked  for  an  invita- 
tion. 

The  invitation  had,  of  course,  been  given,  but  it  had 
a  little  thrown  out  one  of  the  projected  arrangements. 
Miss  Sutor  was  to  have  had  a  chair  of  state  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  hall,  round  which  other  chairs  were  to  have 
radiated,  and  the  older  girls  and  the  few  guests  were  to 
have  kept  her  company,  changing  places  occasionally, 
and  keeping  up  the  idea  of  a  musical  party  rather  than 
that  of  a  concert. 

But  it  had  only  been  necessary  to  change  the  chair  of 
state  for  a  sofa,  upon  which  Miss  Sutor  and  her  friend 
could  sit  together.  There  was  a  small  round  table  in 
front  of  it  —  the  idea  taken  from  pictures  of  enter- 
tainments at  Windsor  Castle  —  on  which  was  a  vase  of 
flowers,  and  two  programmes  of  the  concert,  with 
borders  illuminated  by  Mary  Polegate.  She  had  of- 
fered to  "  do  "  them  herself,  and  when  the  offer  had  been 
warmly  accepted  had  said  with  a  pious  smile  that  she 
"  hoped  nothing  would  happen  to  them  this  time." 


280  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

It  was  not  known  until  Saturday  morning  that  Mrs. 
Angel,  Miss  Sutor's  friend,  was  really  Madame  Angeli, 
the  famous  violinist,  and  the  excitement  of  some  girls 
who  were  expected  to  make  their  mark,  and  the  nerv- 
ousness of  others  who  had  admitted  to  a  fear  of  break- 
ing down,  wore  greatly  enhanced. 

Edith  Mackenzie,  who  was  going  on  to  the  Royal 
College  of  Music,  expressed  the  liveliest  terror,  as  she 
was  the  only  violinist  besides  Ann  :  but  she  fully  expected 
to  be  encored  —  had  indeed  pulled  a  few  hidden  strings 
so  that  she  should  be  —  and  had  visions  of  the  distin- 
guished lady  asking  indignantly  why  she  should  only 
have  been  put  down  for  one  piece,  while  an  inferior 
performer  and  a  much  younger  girl  should  have  been 
put  down  for  two.  She  really  thought  that  she  played 
better  than  Ann,  and  attributed  the  slight  put  upon 
her  to  favouritism.  Rut  M.  Lanson  had  expressed  him- 
self in  despair  about  Ann's  playing  during  the  past 
week,  and  she  thought  it  would  serve  him  quite  right  to 
be  shown  from  a  quarter  which  he  could  not  ignore  that 
he  had  made  a  bad  mistake. 

Ann,  fortunately  for  her,  did  not  know  who  the  hand- 
some grey-haired  woman  sitting  with  Miss  Sutor  was, 
for  in  the  state  to  which  her  nerves  had  been  reduced 
she  expected  to  do  no  more  than  acquit  herself  credit- 
ably, and  would  have  been  unequal  to  the  extra  strain 
of  trying  to  satisfy  so  great  a  musician  as  Madame 
Angel  i. 

Ann  had  eaten  next  to  nothing  for  a  week,  and  the 
varied  emotions  she  had  gone  through,  and  the  necessity 
she  had  considered  herself  under  of  maintaining  a  lively 
spirit  before  the  school,  and  at  least  a  calm  one  at  home, 
had  brought  her  very  near  to  the  end  of  her  tether. 
She  had  awoke  with  a  headache,  but  had  been  made  to 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  o81 

He  down  in  the  afternoon,  and  was  feeling  rather  better, 
although  glad  enough  to  sit  quietly  in  a  chair  against 
the  wall,  with  Hilda  beside  her. 

Hilda's  company  was  an  inestimable  comfort  to  her. 
She  took  her  hand  sometimes,  when  music  was  going  on 
and  nobody  was  looking,  and  gave  it  a  squeeze.  She 
couldn't  think  what  she  should  have  done  if  she  had  been 
condemned  to  sit  by  herself  all  the  evening,  while  all  the 
others  were  in  frit  "idly  groups.  The  servants  were  at 
the  back  of  the  hah,  and  Lizzie  was  with  them.  It  would 
have  gone  hard  with  her  pride  if  Lizzie  had  seen  her 
shunned  by  all  the  girls  of  the  school.  And  the  people 
from  outside  must  have  noticed  too,  and  wondered  why 
she  had  no  friends. 

The  Vicar's  wife  came  and  talked  to  her,  and  Hilda 
made  the  situation  look  natural,  and  also  took  the  chief 
burden  of  the  conversation  on  her  shoulders.  This  was 
a  great  relief,  as  the  Vicar's  wife  was  shy  and  could 
only  begin  a  conversation,  and  Ann  would  hardly  have 
felt  equal  to  the  task  of  carrying  it  on  when  the  Vicar's 
wife  should  reach  the  stage  of  wondering  what  she  should 
say  next.  It  was  better  when  Miss  Henderson  came  and 
sat  with  them.  Of  course  she  knew;  but  she  talked 
quite  naturally  to  Ann,  and  was  kind  to  her,  and  Ann 
felt  very  grateful. 

The  time  came  for  Ann  to  play  her  first  piece.  She 
looked  more  childish  than  ever  as  she  went  up  on  to 
the  platform  and  tuned  her  violin  to  the  note  of  M. 
Lanson,  who  was  to  accompany  her.  She  wore  a  white 
muslin  frock,  the  short  skirt  of  which  was  much  spread 
out,  with  pale  blue  sash  and  hair-ribbons,  and  bronze 
silk  stockings  and  heelless  shoes.  Her  neck  and  arms 
were  bare.  They  were  thin  but  beautifully  modelled. 
She  looked  an  extraordinary  pretty  child,  but  nothing 


282         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

more  than  a  child,  as  she  stood  up  before  them  to  play. 

The  intervals  between  the  songs  and  other  pieces  were 
longer  than  is  usual  at  a  set  concert,  to  allow  of  con- 
versation and  moving  about.  This,  and  other  details, 
had  been  very  carefully  thought  out.  Ann  had  gone  up 
to  the  platform  in  a  buzz  of  talk,  which  had  concealed 
the  fact  that  nobody  had  clapped  her.  But  other  girls 
had  been  applauded,  as  they  had  gone  up  to  do  their 
best,  even  when  it  was  known  that  their  best  would  not 
amount  to  much.  She  felt  very  much  alone  as  she 
stood  up  before  them  all,  heard  the  talk  gradually  die 
away,  and  saw  all  the  cold  expectant  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 
She  did  not  feel  frightened,  and  knew  that  she  would 
not  break  down  in  any  way,  but  her  head  had  suddenly 
begun  to  ache  again,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  numbness 
upon  her,  which  made  her  feel  as  if  it  were  somebody 
else  who  was  pla^nng,  and  as  if  she  were  unable  to  infuse 
any  warmth  into  the  performer. 

Probably  she  had  never  played  more  correctly.  The 
piece  was  Wieniawski's  "  Mazourka  "  which  she  had 
practised  over  and  over  again,  bar  by  bar,  phrase  by 
phrase,  page  by  page.  She  felt  that  the  person  who 
was  playing  it  could  not  possibty  go  wrong,  or  play  at 
all  out  of  tune,  which  interested  her  a  little,  as  she  knew 
it  was  not  easy  never  to  play  any  note  the  least  little  bit 
sharp  or  the  least  little  bit  flat.  But  though  the  tone 
was  pure,  it  did  not  seem  to  be  the  voice  of  her  Nicola 
Gagliano  that  was  speaking.  It  was  not  so  rich,  and 
was  much  more  monotonous.     There  was  no  life  in  it. 

After  a  time,  Ann  felt  so  sure  that  the  person  who 
was  playing  the  Mazourka  could  be  trusted  not  to  hurt 
her  ears  with  doubtful  notes  or  uncertain  bowing,  al- 
though she  was  evidently  incapable  of  playing  it  as  she 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  283 

had  sometimes  played  it  herself,  that  she  allowed  herself 
to  look  at  the  audience. 

The  eyes  were  still  cold,  and  some  of  them  were  wan- 
dering; there  was  even  a  little  murmur  of  talk  begin- 
ning to  be  heard.  She  met  the  look  of  the  grey-haired 
lady  sitting  on  the  sofa  with  Miss  Sutor.  It  was  in- 
terested, but  a  trifle  impatient.  A  message  seemed  to 
come  to  her  from  it  that  she  was  to  prick  up  the  person 
who  was  playing  to  be  more  alive.  She  tried  to  do  so, 
but  seemed  unable  to  convey  the  message,  and  there  was 
no  response.  The  piece  ended  in  the  same  clear  but 
dead  way  in  which  it  had  been  played  throughout. 

Ann  seemed  to  wake  up  as  the  last  notes  of  the  piano 
sounded,  and  knew  that  M.  Lanson  was  furious  with  her. 
"  You  didn't  try,"  he  said,  with  an  angry  frown,  as  he 
handed  her  the  music  to  put  away.  "  If  you  don't  play 
better  next  time,  I  will  not  teach  you  any  more."  Only 
one  other  person  in  the  hall  knew  how  well  she  really  had 
played,  but  he  was  the  only  person  who  knew  how  much 
better  she  could  play. 

Ann  was  too  glad  to  have  got  the  first  piece  over 
to  care  much  what  he  said.  Her  head  was  aching 
badly,  and  she  wanted  to  go  and  sit  quietly  by  Hilda, 
but  had  to  put  her  violin  and  bow  back  in  their  case, 
which  seemed  to  her  an  intolerable  piece  of  drudgery. 

The  applause  which  had  followed  her  performance 
had  been  purely  perfunctory  from  the  majority  of  the 
audience.  As  she  went  down  from  the  platform,  and 
back  to  her  seat  by  Hilda,  the  talk  had  begun  again, 
and  she  was  already  forgotten.  Sensitive  as  she  was 
to  impressions,  she  knew  that  there  was  no  affectation  in 
this  iffnorine-  of  her.  The  interests  and  excitements 
of  the  day  had  driven  her  from  the  minds  which  she  had 


284         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

occupied  for  more  than  a  week.  She  would  occupy 
them  again  shortly,  but  for  the  present  she  was  nothing 
to  them. 

Her  isolation  struck  her  more  painfully  than  almost 
any  episode  of  the  punishment  she  had  taken  upon  her- 
self. In  ordinary  circumstances,  she  would  have  been 
deep  in  all  that  had  gone  on  in  preparation  for  the 
great  event,  and  would  have  afforded,  perhaps,  more 
help  than  anybody.  She  had  made  herself  a  personage, 
and  could  have  offered  more  than  the  rest.  But  it  had 
all  been  done  without  her.  Nobody  had  wanted  her 
help,  and  nobody  had  wanted  her  interest.  This  was 
the  true  Coventry,  and  she  felt  it  more  than  she  had 
felt  all  but  the  worst  of  the  unkindness  to  which  she 
had  been  subjected.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  must  go 
on  after  the  truth  came  to  be  known.  None  of  the  girls 
whose  companionship  she  had  so  enjoyed  really  cared 
for  her,  or  would  care  for  her  any  more. 

Except  one.  As  she  took  her  seat  again  by  the  side 
of  Hilda,  she  felt  to  the  full  what  it  was  to  have  a 
friend. 

XXI 

Edith  Mackenzie  was  loudly  applauded  as  she  went 
on  to  the  platform.  She  bowed  and  smiled  with  great 
assurance,  and  tuned  her  violin  loudly.  Its  tone  was 
rough,  and  hurt  Ann's  delicate  ear,  so  that  she  shut 
her  eyes  in  pain,  and  was  observed  to  shut  them  by  some 
who  were  watching  her. 

The  piece  was  Raff's  "  Cavatina,"  and  Edith  Mac- 
kenzie played  it  well  for  a  young  amateur.  But  she 
seemed  to  Ann  to  be  tearing  whatever  feeling  there  was 
in  it  to  tatters.  Her  ear,  sublimated  by  the  nervous 
tension  she  was  undergoing,  and  the  pain  in  her  head, 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  285 

was  jarred  by  every  falsity  and  every  roughness,  and 
when  it  came  to  the  double  stopping*,  where  the  player 
put  forth  all  her  powers,  it  was  almost  torture  to  her. 
She  closed  her  eyes  again  and  leant  her  head  back  with 
a  look  of  suffering.  This  also  was  observed,  and  was 
considered  to  be  a  piece  of  acting.  Ann  had  acted  so 
much  during  the  past  week. 

But  whatever  Ann  felt  about  the  performance,  it 
delighted  the  school,  who  applauded  it  rapturously,  and 
insisted  upon  an  encore.  M.  Lanson  scowled,  and  tried 
to  prevent  it,  but  this  was  put  down  to  jealousy  on  be- 
half of  his  favourite  pupil  and  the  applause  increased 
until  he  had  to  give  way.  Madame  Angeli  had  evidently 
been  impressed.  The  girls  had  all  watched  her,  and 
she  had  been  seen  to  smile  kindly,  in  a  way  she  had  not 
done  to  Ann ;  and  she  had  certainly  clapped  Edith  for 
longer  than  she  had  clapped  Ann. 

As  Edith  Mackenzie  was  preparing  for  her  repeat 
performance,  Mabel  Finney  came  over  to  Ann,  and  said  : 
"  You  are  to  behave  yourself  properly.  We  are  all  sick 
of  you  and  your  airs." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  talking 
about?  "  demanded  Hilda,  firing  up,  while  Ann  flushed, 
but  looked  bewildered. 

"  All  the  time  Edith  has  been  playing,  she  has  been 
pretending  to  be  disgusted.  Edith  clapped  her,  and 
that's  what  she  does  in  return,  the  little  cat !  "  She  re- 
turned to  her  seat  with  indignation. 

"  I  wasn't  pretending  anything.  My  head  hurts," 
said  Ann,  as  Edith  Mackenzie  began  to  play  again. 

It  was  a  simpler  piece,  and  she  played  it  more  quietly. 
Ann  was  enabled  to  listen  without  distress,  and  join  in 
the  applause  at  the  end,  but  it  was  not  only  her  head 
that  was  hurting  her.     She  would  hardly  have  thought 


286  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

it  possible  that  anything  that  Mabel  Finney  could  have 
said  would  have  given  her  that  kind  of  pain.  But  the 
group  she  had  rejoined  was  eying  her  in  watchful  dis- 
favour. It  contained  one  or  two  girls  who  had  taken 
no  part  in  the  attacks  upon  her,  but  they  must  have 
thought  that  she  was  capable  of  doing  that,  just  as 
Maliel  Finney  did,  and  disliked  her  for  it.  Some  of 
them  were  whispering  to  other  groups,  and  more  of  them 
were  watching  her,  with  the  same  disfavour.  They 
would  put  it  all  about  the  room  that  she  had  acted  dis- 
gust at  Edith's  playing  —  out  of  jealousy,  of  course; 
and  no  one  would  believe  that  she  would  have  been  in- 
capable of  such  a  thing.  None  of  them  had  wanted 
her  during  the  day,  and  she  had  been  completely  forgot- 
ten. Now  she  was  being  brought  to  their  notice  again, 
and  all  the  feeling  they  had  for  her  was  one  of  censure 
and  dislike. 

An  interval  came  during  which  lemonade  was  handed 
round.  A  small  girl,  very  proud  of  her  curled  and 
flounced  perfection,  carried  a  tray  to  the  quarter  in 
which  Ann  and  Hilda  were  sitting.  Ann  wanted  a  drink 
badly,  but  she  had  announced  her  intention  of  touching 
nothing  that  had  been  provided  for  the  entertainment. 
She  had  even  brought  her  own  supper  —  a  few  cakes 
with  which  she  might  make  play  at  the  table.  She  had 
announced  this  intention  too,  giving  as  part  reason  that 
she  was  afraid  they  might  want  to  poison  her  food.  She 
was  far  from  such  audacities  now.  They  had  done  her 
very  little  good  after  all,  as  the  girls  disliked  her  just 
the  same. 

She  plucked  up  spirit  to  say:  "  No,  thank  you,"  as 
the  small  girl  showed  that  she  was  going  to  pass  her. 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  ask  you,"  said  the  small  girl,  with 
a  look  of  high  disdain ;  and  this  also  hurt  her.      She  had 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  o87 

always  been  "  nice  "  to  the  small  girls,  giving  them  their 
share  of  the  sweets  she  brought  to  school,  pulling  their 
hair  in  a  friendly  way  if  it  happened  to  be  ready  to  her 
hand,  swinging  them  in  the  garden,  to  an  extent  that  few 
would  take  the  trouble  to  do,  and  never  trying  to 
elude  them  from  garden  games.  They  had  run  after 
her,  for  this  and  other  purposes,  and  her  popularity 
among  them  had  been  as  great  as  among  her  own  com- 
panions. But  that  was  all  forgotten  now.  They  dis- 
liked her  as  much  as  the  rest. 

She  told  Hilda  she  thought  she  would  go  and  get  a 
glass  of  water,  but  Hilda  said  she  was  to  sit  still,  and 
went  out  to  get  it  for  her.  Rosamund  Felstead  came 
up  to  her  and  said,  with  rather  a  shame-faced  air: 
"  It's  nothing  to  do  with  your  being  in  Coventry,  but 
the  girls  think  that  Edith  ought  to  play  again  instead 
of  you.  Madame  Angeli  liked  her  playing,  and  must 
think  it  odd  that  you  should  play  twice  and  she  only 
once." 

Edith  had  already  played  twice,  but  Ann  was  only  too 
pleased  that  she  should  play  a  third  time,  or  even  a 
fourth,  if  she  could  arouse  enough  enthusiasm.  "  I 
don't  mind  at  all,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  will  you  ask  M.  Lanson?  " 

Ann  didn't  want  to  get  up,  or  to  draw  any  attention 
to  herself  by  moving  about  the  room,  but  she  said :  "  I 
will,  if  you'll  tell  them  I  didn't  pretend  not  to  like 
Edith's  playing.  I  shut  my  eyes  because  of  my  head, 
which  hurts." 

There  were  dark  shadows  under  her  eyes.  '  Yes,  I 
saw  that,"  said  Rosamund,  relenting  in  a  gush  of  ten- 
derness towards  her.  "  Poor  darling,  it  will  be  all  over 
for  you  tonight." 

Ann  had  no  use  for  her  belated  tenderness,  and  made 


288  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

her  way  to  M.  Lanson,  who  had  just  changed  his  posi- 
tion, and  was   talking  vivaciously   to  Madame  Angeli. 

M.  Lanson  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  late  annoy- 
ance with  her,  for  when  he  saw  her  standing  by  him  he 
said:  "Ah,  this  is  my  little  pupil  who  has  the  beauti- 
ful Nicola  Gagliano,  and  plays  it  so  well  when  she  is  in 
the  mood."  He  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  towards 
Madame  Angeli. 

It  was  Madame  Angeli  who  kissed  a  fellow-artist,  in 
the  sight  of  Edith  Mackenzie,  who  had  not  yet  been 
presented  to  her,  and  the  whole  school;  but  it  was  Mrs. 
Angel,  with  children  of  her  own,  who  said :  "  Why, 
what  a  pale  face  and  dark  eyes !  Don't  you  feel  well, 
dear?" 

"  My  head  hurts  a  little,"  said  Ann.  "  Monsieur 
Lanson,  auriez-vous  la  bonte  de  faire  jouer  Edith  Mac- 
kenzie a  ma  place  la  prochaine  fois?  " 

M.  Lanson  laughed  —  he  still  had  hold  of  Ann's  hand. 
'*  You  didn't  like  what  I  said  to  you,"  he  said.  "  She 
is  a  proud  child  this,  Madame,  and  I  scolded  her  for  not 
trying.  But  she  is  going  to  try  the  next  time,  and  you 
shall  hear  what  you  shall  hear  in  that  quite  little  piece." 

Madame  Angeli  said:  "  Edith  Mackenzie  plays  very 
niceky,  but  I  want  to  hear  you  again  " ;  and  Mrs.  Angel 
added:  "  Just  that  one  little  piece,  dear,  and  we  won't 
bother  you  to  play  again  if  you  don't  feel  up  to  it." 

Ann  reported  the  failure  of  her  mission  to  Rosamund 
Felstead,  who  received  it  without  a  word,  offended  once 
more  over  the  rejection  of  her  kindness,  and  carried  it 
to  the  rest,  who  were  also  offended.  M.  Lanson  had 
been  seen  to  laugh  when  Ann  put  her  question,  and  he 
had  held  her  hand,  and  presented  her  to  Madame  Angeli. 
It  was  sickening  to  see  an  old  man,  who  ought  to  know 
what  good  playing  was,  so  blinded  by  favouritism.     He 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  289 

must  have  been  lauding  Ann  up  to  the  skies,  or  Madame 
Angeli  wouldn't  have  kissed  her.  It  had  looked  as  if 
he  had  asked  Madame  Angeli  which  she  would  rather 
hear;  and  what  could  she  have  said?  But  of  course  it 
was  just  like  Ann  to  ask  him  in  front  of  her,  instead  of 
waiting  till  he  had  left  her. 

It  was  not  in  the  least  like  Ann,  who  still  had  no  idea 
that  the  kind  grey-haired  woman  was  the  famous  Ma- 
dame Angeli,  although  Rosamund  had  mentioned  her 
name;  but  she  was  made  to  feel  during  the  next  half 
hour  that  hostility  against  her  had  increased. 

Well,  she  wouldn't  give  in  to  it  any  more.  She  had 
done  what  they  had  asked  her,  and  they  could  only  show 
that  the}7  hated  her  all  the  more.  She  didn't  care  now 
if  they  hated  her  or  not,  and  she  would  show  them  that 
she  didn't  by  the  way  she  would  play.  There  would 
be  opportunities  for  expressing  defiance  in  d'Ambrosk/s 
"  Canzonetta,"  which  was  to  be  her  second  piece.  And 
she  must  try  to  please  M.  Lanson,  who  was  a  tiresome 
old  creature,  but  had  taken  a  lot  of  trouble  to  teach  her, 
and  who  trusted  her  to  do  so ;  also  the  kind  grey-haired 
lady,  who  was  evidently  fond  of  music. 

XXII 

When  her  time  came,  she  went  on  to  the  platform  with 
her  head  held  high.  The  piano  part  which  she  put  before 
M.  Lanson  shook  as  she  set  it  on  the  rack,  and  he  saw 
it  but  thought  he  must  have  been  mistaken  when  she 
tuned  her  violin  with  a  firm  bow,  and  got  more  tone  out 
of  it  than  she  had  done  anywhere  in  the  piece  she  had 
already  played. 

Her  face  was  quite  white  as  she  stood  up  before  them 
all,  in  the  graceful  attitude  of  the  born  violin  player,  of 


290         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

whom  the  instrument  seems  almost  part  of  the  body,  so 
beautiful  and  natural  are  the  curves  which  it  demands 
from  arm  and  wrist  and  fingers,  while  the  bow  is  held 
lightly  poised,  ready  to  bring  out  all  the  strange  sweet- 
ness hoarded  up  in  it.  Her  eyes  seemed  enormous. 
She  was  no  longer  only  a  pretty  child.  Perhaps  she 
was  not  pretty  at  all  at  that  moment.  She  was  a  soul 
in  revolt  and  pain.  The  talk  which  had  accompanied 
her  preparation,  rather  louder  than  usual,  as  if  it  were 
intended  to  continue,  died  away  completely.  They  all 
looked  at  her.  It  was  Ann  against  the  school  now,  and 
something  must  come  of  this.  Either  they  would  con- 
quer her,  or  she  them. 

A  few  bars  from  the  piano,  and  she  struck  into  the 
half  gay  half  plaintive  opening  motif,  and  pursued  it 
boldly  through  its  flow  and  returns,  which  were  now 
challenging,  now  almost  impudent,  now  relenting,  and 
now  challenging  again.  Madame  Angeli  leaned  for- 
ward, and  her  eyes  were  alight.  This  was  very  differ- 
ent from  the  playing  of  the  Mazourka.  The  bowing 
and  fingering  were  just  as  sure,  but  the  tone  was  twice 
as  great ;  it  was  extraordinary  that  such  life  and  fire 
should  be  produced  from  that  small  light  figure. 

To  the  girls  in  the  hall,  who  had  so  applauded  Edith 
Mackenzie's  calculated  raptures,  Ann  also  had  some- 
thing to  say.  She  was  not  asking  for  their  applause. 
She  was  telling  them  that  she  didn't  want  it,  and  wanted 
them  as  little  as  they  wanted  her.  Not  all  of  them  un- 
derstood it,  but  a  good  many  did,  and  all  of  them  lis- 
tened to  her  as  if  fascinated.  Edith  Mackenzie,  having 
something  of  the  artist  in  her,  suddenly  grew  ashamed 
of  her  own  late  performance,  and  wondered  what 
Madame  Angeli  must  be  thinking  of  her  now ;  then,  as 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  291 

it  seemed  improbable  that  she  was  thinking  of  her  at 
all,  what  she  was  thinking  of  Ann;  and  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  lead  the  applause  at  the  end  of  the 
piece,  Coventry  or  no  Coventry. 

Ann  came  to  the  charming  short  second  motif,  which 
was  played  a  little  slower  than  the  first.  The  double 
notes  rang  out  clear  and  sweet  and  true,  and  M.  Lan- 
son,  sitting  at  the  piano,  turned  his  head  and  looked 
at  Madame  Angeli,  with  a  wide  grin  of  pure  pleasure, 
and  a  shake  of  his  white  locks.  What  did  she  think  of 
that?  He  had  told  her  how  well  Ann  could  play  — 
"  if  she  liked."  But  it  seemed  she  never  had  liked  be- 
fore, and  he  had  known  nothing  about  it. 

Madame  Angeli  did  not  respond  to  him.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  Ann.  She  would  not  have  missed  this 
for  anything,  but  she  did  not  understand  what  was  pro- 
ducing it,  nor  the  change  that  was  coming  over  Ann's 
face  as  she  played  the  mournful  ending  of  the  second 
motif. 

It  was  as  white  and  set  as  ever,  but  something  was 
happening  to  the  eyes,  which  looked  so  dark  in  it.  As 
Ann  returned  with  as  much  dash  as  before  to  the  first 
motif,  a  tear  dropped  from  one  of  them  on  to  the  violin, 
which  was  immediately  followed  by  a  tear  from  the 
other.  A  crimson  flush  crept  up  over  the  pallor,  and 
more  tears  came  dropping,  dropping.  But  there  was 
no  change  in  the  expression  of  her  face,  nor  in  the 
mastery  with  which  she  played.  She  had  once  boasted 
that  nobody  in  the  school  should  ever  see  her  "  upset 
some  tears."  But  now  she  was  crying  before  them  all. 
They  had  broken  through  all  her  defences  at  last, 
helped  by  her  own  music,  which  had  betrayed  her.  The 
tears  came  against  her  will.     She  could  not  help  them 


292  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

falling,  but  they  did  not  mean  that  she  was  giving  in 
though  she  was  now  defenceless.     She  would  defy  them 
till  the  last. 

XXIII 

"  Brava !  brava !  "  cried  M.  Lanson,  hardly  waiting 
till  he  had  played  the  last  note  of  the  accompaniment, 
and  sprang  up  as  if  he  would  embrace  Ann  before  them 
all.  The  applause  of  Madame  Angeli,  and  of  the  whole 
school,  which  knew  that  Ann  had  played  magnificently, 
and  was  stricken  with  compunction  at  the  strange  sight 
of  her  tears,  was  mingled  with  this  incipient  comedy. 

But  Ann  had  already  escaped.  She  did  not  bow  to 
the  audience,  but  turned  away  the  moment  the  last  long 
harmonic,  which  she  carried  to  the  end,  was  finished, 
leaving  out  the  two  pizzicato  notes,  and  putting  her 
violin  down  anywhere  went  out  through  the  door  on 
the  platform. 

Hilda,  who  had  been  almost  unbearably  moved  by  the 
sight  of  Ann's  tears,  and  all  that  she  alone  knew  that 
they  meant,  slipped  out  of  a  door  that  was  near  her  and 
ran  to  find  Ann.  She  found  her  half-sitting,  half-lying 
on  a  bench  in  the  cloakroom  in  a  paroxysm  of  sobbing. 
She  was  nothing  but  a  hurt  child  again  now,  who  had 
come  quite  to  the  end  of  her  resources. 

As  Hilda  knelt  beside  her  and  tried  to  raise  her  head, 
where  it  lay  on  her  outstretched  arm,  Lizzie  burst  into 
the  room,  in  a  strong  heat  of  sympathy  and  indignation. 
"  There,  Miss  Ann,  dear,"  she  said,  "  don't  cry  any 
more.  I  know  all  about  it  and  I  say  it's  disgraceful 
the  way  you  been  treated.  I  shall  tell  her  lady- 
ship the  moment  we  get  home." 

Ann's  sobs  were  increasing  in  violence.  She  would 
not  let  Hilda  raise  her,  and  was  too  far  gone  to  turn 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  093 

upon  the  faithful  Lizzie,  who  adjured  her  again  to  leave 
off  crying,  and  said  it  was  a  shame.  "  I've  heard  all 
about  it,  Miss,"  she  said  to  Hilda.  "  I  don't  know 
whether  you  know  the  rights  of  it  or  not.  They  say 
you're  the  only  one  who's  been  kind  to  the  poor  child, 
but  — " 

"  Ob.  yes,  I  do,"  said  Hilda ;  and  Ann  recovered  her- 
self enough,  at  hearing  herself  called  a  child  by  Lizzie, 
to  sob  out :     "  Be  quiet,  and  go  away." 

Margaret  Parbury  came  in.  She  looked  very  con- 
cerned when  she  saw  the  group  of  them.  Hilda  had 
lifted  Ann  up  by  force,  and  was  sitting  by  her  on  the 
bench,  holding  her.  But  Ann  was  still  sobbing  vio- 
lently. "  Miss  Sutor  has  sent  me  to  fetch  her,"  Mar- 
garet said. 

Lizzie  turned  upon  her.  "  She's  not  in  a  fit  state  to 
be  fetched,  as  you  can  plainly  see,  Miss,"  she  said. 
"  And  now  you  do  see,  I  hope  you're  proud  of  what  you 
and  the  rest  have  brought  her  to.  I  know  she's  cried 
herself  to  sleep  every  night  for  a  week,  and  she's  ate 
next  to  nothing;  but  she  wouldn't  tell  me  nothing  of 
what  it  was  all  about,  and  wouldn't  let  me  tell  her 
ladyship  neither.  But  now  I  know  she's  been  treated 
downright  crool,  and  I  wish  I'd  — " 

"  I  want  to  go  home,"  wailed  Ann.  "  Stop  talking 
and  fetch  the  carriage." 

"  Listen,  Ann,"  said  Margaret.  "  It's  all  over  now. 
I  was  sitting  next  to  Miss  Sutor,  and  I  told  her,  and  she 
said  she  shouldn't  ask  anything  more.  So  stop  crying 
and  come  back  with  me.  Madame  Angeli  wants  to 
thank  you  for  playing  so  well." 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  sobbed  Ann.  "Lizzie,  why 
can't  you  f-fetch  the  carriage,  instead  of  standing  there 
like  a  st-uck  p-ig?  " 


294  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

The  fact  that  she  should  use  an  English  image  seemed 
to  indicate  that  she  was  coming  to  herself.  She  was 
allowing  Hilda  to  dry  her  eyes  now,  but  her  sobs  con- 
tinued almost  as  violently  as  before. 

"  She  never  done  it  at  all,"  said  Lizzie  to  Margaret. 
"  It  was  Miss  Hilda  as  did  it,  as  well  I  know  myself,  for 
they  quarrelled  about  it  in  the  public  street,  and  would 
have  come  to  blows,  if  I  hadn't  up  and  said  I'd  tell  her 
ladyship,  and  stopped  them." 

"Be  quiet,  I  tell  you,"  cried  Ann;  but  Hilda  said: 
"  Ann  dear,  it's  all  over  now,  and  Lizzie  has  told  the 
maids;  there's  no  reason  to  keep  it  to  yourself  any 
longer.  Hilda  Lang  did  it,  Margaret,  and  Ann  knew 
that  if  she  said  she  didn't,  it  would  be  the  same  as  tell- 
ing of  Hilda.  I  found  it  out,  but  she  wouldn't  let  me 
tell  you." 

"  Which  I  call  noble  of  Miss  Ann,"  said  Lizzie,  "  and 
what  she's  had  to  go  through  for  it  nobody  will  ever 
know  but  me,  be  they  who  they  may." 

Will  you  be  quiet  and  go  and  fetch  the  carriage?  " 
cried  Ann.  "  I  haven't  minded  at  all  since  Hilda  knew 
—  except  a  little ;  and  I  cried  because  my  head  hurt  me, 
and  if  they  think  I  cried  because  of  them,  I  didn't." 

The  tears  of  which  Ann  spoke  in  the  past  tense  were 
still  very  much  of  the  present,  but  they  were  quieter 
now,  and  she  leant  against  Hilda  without  trying  to  get 
away. 

Margaret's  face  had  changed  during  the  process  of 
enlightenment.  "  Oh,  why  didn't  I  think  of  that?  "  she 
said,  in  distress.  "  I  did  think  at  first  that  Hilda  Lang 
must  have  done  it.  I'm  so  sorry,  Ann,  if  I  was  un- 
kind to  you.      So  will  everybody  be." 

"  You   weren't   unkind,"   sobbed   Ann.     "  You   were 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  295 

very  gentle  to  me,  and  so  was  Nora  yesterday.     I  like 
you  both  best  after  Hilda." 

She  clung  to  Hilda  now,  and  her  storm  of  crying  sub- 
sided, as  if  she  was  beginning  to  feel  the  relief  that  h 
been  brought  to  her. 

"  She  was  that  angry  with  Miss  Hilda  when  she  heard 
what  she  done,"  pursued  Lizzie,  still  loyal  and  indignant, 
"  that  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  make  her  be'ave 
herself.  As  if  she'd  do  a  thing  like  that,  indeed !  You 
ought  to  have  known  better,  Miss,  and  all  the  young 
ladies.  Why  the  names  she  called  Miss  Hilda  was 
something  awful!  All  right,  Miss  Ann,  dear,  I'll  run 
straight  down  and  fetch  the  carriage  and  take  you  'ome. 
I'm  sure  Mr.  Robins  will  put  the  horses  in  at  once  — 
for  you  —  even  if  he's  having  his  supper.  ITVre  only 
servants,"  added  Lizzie  with  high  pride,  as  she  pre- 
pared to  go,  "  but  none  of  us  wouldn't  believe  that  Miss 
Ann  could  ever  do  anything  nasty." 

Ann  refused  to  go  back  into  the  hall,  and  Hilda  would 
not  press  her.  But  Margaret  said :  "  I'm  going  to  tell 
everybody  how  it  was,  Ann.  You  know  how  sorry 
they'll  be.  Couldn't  you  just  come  in  for  a  little,  to 
show  them  that  you  haven't  gone  away  angry  ?  " 

"  You  can  tell  them  I  don't  inquiet  myself  any  more," 
said  Ann.  "  I  don't  want  to  go  in  there  before  every- 
body." 

Margaret  had  brought  cold  water,  and  Hilda  was 
bathing  Ann's  eyes  and  forehead,  which  made  her  feel 
better  every  moment,  though  her  head  still  ached  badly. 

"  You  shan't  if  you  don't  want  to,"  said  Margaret. 
"  I'll  tell  Miss  Sutor  and  Madame  Angeli  that  you're 
not  well  enough." 

"  Is  that  the  true  Madame  Angeli?  "  asked  Ann,  en- 


296         THE  CLINTON'S.  AND  OTHERS 

lightenment  coming  to  her  from  the  recollection  of  pic- 
tures she  had  seen.      "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me.  Hi. 

"  I  thought  it  would  upset  you  if  you  knew  you  had 
to  play  before  1 

••  I  ■  isfa  I'd  known."  said  Ann.  **  I  would  have  tried 
to  play  better.  I  was  thinking  all  the  time  about  being 
at  Coventry." 

"  You  won't  think  about  that  any  more,  will  you?  '* 
said  Margaret.  "  We  shall  all  try  to  make  it  up  to  you. 
We  shall  be  horribly  sorry  when  we  remember  all  that 
happened." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  be  too  sorry.  Margaret,"  said 
Ann,  u  or  I  shan't  be  able  to  make  any  more  pleasan- 
tries about  it.*'  The  first  faint  smile  appeared  on  her 
face.      "  I  made  some  rather  good  ones,  didn't   I :  " 

Margaret  felt  more  like  crying  than  la  _.  but 

she  smiled  too.  '*  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  appreciate  them 
quite  enough  at  the  time,''  she  said.  *  Can't  you  make 
up  a  little  pleasantry  now,  Ann,  for  me  to  tell  the 
girls :  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  too  tired  now,"  said  Ann.  u  But 
perhaps  I  will  go  back  till  the  carriage  comes.  I  should 
like  to  say  some  words  to  Madame  Angeli.  I  suppose 
she  will  see  that  I've  been  crying,  but  I  told  her  that 
my  head  hurt,  and  if  she  thinks  I'm  a  baby  for  crying 
about  that  I  must  support  the  consequent    i  " 


XXIV 

The  truth  had  already  spread  among  the  girls  in  the 
hall.  A  maid  who  had  heard  Lizzie's  story  had  tolrl 
one  of  them.  It  went  from  group  to  group,  and  little 
attention  was  paid  to  the  subsequent  performers.      So 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  297 

quick  was  the  revulsion  of  feeling,  that  Mabel  Finney 
and  Helen  Webster  and  a  few  others  were  feeling  them- 
selves outcasts  well  before  the  concert  was  over,  Susan 
Xorris  was  digesting  a  lesson  in  the  small  value  to  be 
placed  on  circumstantial  evidence,  and  good  Marj 
Polegate  had  already  said  three  times  that  she  was 
thankful  now  that  she  had  never  borne  anv  malice 
towards  Ann. 

Miss  Hender-on  heard  the  story,  and  told  it  shortly 
to  Miss  Sutor,  who  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  as 
the  burden  she  had  felt  increasingly  during  the  last  few 
days  was  rolled  off  her  shoulders.  Her  school  would  not 
have  been  the  same  without  that  naughty  fascinating 
Ann  bringing  her  bright  face  and  impudent  ways  to  it 
every  morning.  She  had  been  wondering  how  she  could 
get  out  of  her  threat  to  tell  Lady  Sinclair  of  Ann's 
last  escapade,  and  had  let  the  Coventry  go  on  for  the 
full  week  more  to  give  her  an  excuse  to  say  that  Ann 
had  been  punished  er.ough  than  because  she  was  blind 
to  the  serious  disturbance  it  was  creating. 

But  part  of  her  burden  had  been  in  believing,  as  she 
had  been  bound  to  believe,  that  Ann  had  done  an  unkind 
as  well  as  a  mischievous  trick.  Miss  Henderson,  who 
had  always  been  unaccountably  blind  to  Mary  Pole- 
gate's  virtues,  had  made  light  of  it.  and  laid  stress  on 
the  fact  that  Ann  had  not  meant  to  spoil  the  chart  al- 
together. But  when  all  had  been  said  in  her  favour  that 
could  be  said,  there  still  remained  something  about  the 
whole  affair  that  showed  Ann  in  a  light  that  Miss  Sutor 
had  not  seen  her  in  before,  and  she  had  shrunk  from  ex- 
amining her  in  that  light.  It  touched  her  deeply  now, 
to  learn  that  the  poor  child  had  run  such  a  gauntlet  to 
protect  the  real  culprit.  She  had  seen  for  herself  how 
deceptive  her  brave  airs  of  not  caring  had  been.     That 


298  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

was  the  real  Ann  —  quixotic  and  courageous;  she  had 
felt  all  along  that  there  was  something  about  the  other 
one  which  did  not  tit  in. 

Ann  came  into  the  hall  with  Margaret  and  Hilda  as 
the  concert  was  ma  ring  its  end.  Hilda  joined  a  group 
of  her  friends,  and  Margaret  went  with  Ann  to  the  seat 
of  state. 

Nora  O'Brien  had  just  sung  an  Irish  song,  and  the 
applause  which  had  begun  to  die  away  renewed  itself 
as  the  three  girls  came  in,  whether  for  them  or  her  was 
not  apparent.  But  Miss  Sutor  asked  for  another  song 
from  her,  and  by  the  time  she  had  got  back  on  to  the 
platform  Ann  was  ensconced  in  the  middle  of  the  sofa, 
safe  from  any  possible  demonstration. 

Her  violent  fit  of  weeping,  and  by  now  atrocious  head- 
ache, had  given  her  such  an  appearance  that  kind  Mrs. 
Angel  forgot  all  about  everything  except  the  necessity 
of  saving  her  from  further  stress.  She  put  her  arm 
round  her,  and  said :  "  I  have  a  girl  just  as  old  as  you. 
When  she  has  a  headache  she  snuggles  up  to  her  old 
mother  and  tries  to  go  to  sleep.  So  I  think  you  had 
better  see  whether  that  will  cure  yours.  Miss  Sutor  is 
going  to  take  me  to  see  your  grandmother  tomorrow, 
and  I  shall  bring  my  violin  and  play  to  you.  But  I 
sha'n't  play  any  better  than  you  did,  Ann." 

Ann  closed  her  eyes  with  a  delicious  sensation  of  hap- 
piness and  relief,  in  spite  of  her  pain,  and  fell  asleep 
instantly.  She  slept  the  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion 
throughout  Nora's  song,  the  applause  which  followed  it, 
the  two  final  events  of  the  programme,  and  the  National 
Anthem.  She  would  have  slept  through  anything,  and 
could  not  be  wakened  when  Lizzie,  ever  faithful,  and 
still  bridling  with  indignation,  announced  the  arrival 
of  the  carriage  to  take  her  home. 


AUDACIOUS  ANN  299 

Miss  Henderson  carried  her  down  to  it — as  gym 
mistress,  of  course,  with  a  notorious  muscular  develop- 
ment. It  was  said  afterwards,  when  the  effect  of  Miss 
Sutor's  birthday  was  wearing  off,  and  the  light  of  hu- 
mour was  beginning  to  play  around„her  again,  that  she 
and  Miss  Henderson  had  quarrelled  as  to  which  of  them 
should  do  it.  But  this  was  not  true,  and  as  Ann  dis- 
liked references  to  her  having  been  carried  at  all  —  like 
a  baby  —  the  story  was  dropped. 

The  morning  after  the  concert,  Gertrude  Knight 
found  a  parcel  just  above  her  pigeon-hole  in  the  cloak- 
room. It  contained  the  cakes  which  Ann  had  brought 
for  her  supper.  She  was  already  ashamed  of  her  part 
in  the  late  affair,  and  thought  it  would  be  kinder  to 
Ann  to  remove  all  unpleasant  reminders  of  it.  So  she 
ate  them. 


THE  BOOKKEEPER 


THE  BOOKKEEPER 


IN  that  maze  of  narrow  streets  that  used  to  lie  to 
the  north  of  the  Strand,  before  the  modern  im- 
provement swept  most  of  them  away,  was  a  grocer's 
shop,  on  the  name-board  of  which  was  painted  "  Jo- 
seph Cummins."  It  was  rather  a  mean  little  shop, 
smelling  of  soap  and  tallow,  but  it  provided  a  decent 
living  for  its  tenant  and  his  wife  and  child. 

Joseph  Cummins  was  a  man  of  poor  education  but 
large  views,  and  a  passion  for  expressing  them.  They 
ranged  loosely  over  all  social  and  political  questions 
that  were  alive  at  that  time,  but  a  few  years  after  the 
birth  of  his  son  concentrated  themselves  on  a  sort  of  en- 
raged secularism,  and  a  corresponding  hatred  for  all 
manifestations  of  religion.  The  real  difficulties  of 
Christianity  hardly  affected  him,  but  he  was  diligent 
in  searching  out  small  discrepancies  in  the  Bible,  which 
he  studied  with  fierce  ardour  to  that  end.  He  was  one 
of  the  most  regular  of  the  Hyde  Park  orators,  and  was 
sometimes  mobbed  by  outraged  supporters  of  revealed 
truth  for  the  outspoken  contempt  with  which  he  treated 
their  beliefs.  When  this  happened  he  felt  pride  in  suf- 
fering for  righteousness'  sake,  and  his  hatred  of  Chris- 
tianity grew  and  grew. 

His  wife,  who  indulged  in  a  mild  but  obstinate  ob- 
servance of  religion,  never  combated  his  views,  but  in- 
sisted that  the  child  should  not  be  nurtured  in  them. 
The  Catholic  revival  was  then  beginning  to  infect  the 
Church  of  England,  and  near  the  quarter  where  they 

303 


304         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

Jived  was  a  large  church  in  the  forefront  of  the  move- 
ment. She  attended  this  church,  and,  without  being 
deeply  affected  by  the  doctrines  taught,  enjoyed  the 
ritual,  and  sent  her  child  to  take  part  in  whatever  was 
done  there  for  the  training  or  education  of  children. 
He  was  a  quiet,  well-behaved  little  boy,  and  a  favourite 
with  the  clergy.  When  he  was  old  enough  he  was  made 
an  acolyte,  which  caused  great  content  to  his  mother, 
and  an  outburst  of  bitter  scorn  from  his  father. 

He  was  sent  to  a  cheap  commercial  school,  where  he 
learnt  nothing  except  to  read  and  write,  and  to  deal  in 
an  elementary  way  with  figures,  for  which  he  showed 
considerable  aptitude.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was 
taken  away  from  school,  and,  through  the  interest  of 
one  of  the  clergy  at  St.  Barnabas,  obtained  a  place  as 
office  boy  in  a  shipping  firm  in  the  city.  The  grocery 
business  had  already  begun  to  decline,  owing  to  his 
father's  increasing  immersion  in  more  serious  affairs, 
and  part  of  his  small  earnings  he  had  to  contribute  from 
the  first  to  the  expenses  of  the  home. 

He  was  conscientious  and  obliging,  and  after  a  vear 
or  two  was  promoted  to  a  junior  clerkship.  His  edu- 
cation had  not  helped  him  to  the  initiative  that  he 
lacked  by  nature,  but  his  accuracy  and  diligence  made 
him  a  good  clerk.  He  learnt  bookkeeping  in  the  even- 
ings, and  presently  rose  to  be  bookkeeper  to  the  firm,  at 
a  respectable  salary. 

In  the  meantime  his  father's  business  continued  to 
dwindle,  and  after  the  death  of  his  mother,  which  hap- 
pened when  he  was  twenty-two,  was  sold  for  a  small 
sum.  Thenceforward  he  kept  his  father,  who  now  de- 
voted himself  entirely  to  his  crusade  against  the  Chris- 
tian religion. 

His  own   religion  he  followed  in  the  same  spirit  of 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  305 

careful  duty  which  he  brought  to  bear  upon  his  work. 
The  church  stood  to  him  for  all  the  social  life  he  knew ; 
for  the  calls  on  his  purse  did  not  permit  of  his  joining  in 
the  pursuits  of  his  fellow-clerks,  among  whom  he  was 
something  of  a  butt,  on  account  of  his  simplicity  of  mind 
and  speech,  and  his  unswerving  self-restraint.  But  they 
liked  him  none  the  less  ;  and  he  remained  a  favourite  with 
the  clergy  of  St.  Barnabas,  and  especially  with  the 
Vicar,  a  man  of  great  force  of  character.  He  under- 
took everything  in  connection  with  the  church  that  he 
was  asked  to  undertake,  but  proved  to  be  of  no  use  in 
teaching  children,  or  in  controlling  the  rough  youths 
who  were  gathered  in  to  the  clubs  and  classes.  So  they 
employed  him  about  the  church  itself,  and  Sunday  was 
a  happy  day  for  him,  from  the  first  service  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  early  morning,  or  after  dawn,  until  the  lights 
were  put  out  at  night. 

His  conscience  troubled  him  when  his  father,  leaving 
off  all  pretence  of  working  for  a  living,  devoted  himself 
entirely  to  his  anti-religious  propaganda.  Was  it  right 
that  he  should  give  him  the  opportunity  of  doing  so  by 
his  support  of  him? 

He  took  his  difficulty  to  the  Vicar,  who  calmed  his 
fears,  but  made  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  the  windy 
atheist.  He  got  little  but  abuse  for  his  pains,  but  was 
able  to  satisfy  the  son  that  the  Christian  Faith  would 
not  suffer  from  such  attacks  as  the  father  could  only 
make  upon  it. 

When  he  was  twenty-six,  he  fell  in  love  with  a  girl 
in  the  tea-shop  he  frequented  in  the  city.  She  was  a 
mild,  gentle  creature,  and  he  thought  her  very  beauti- 
ful. He  admired  her  for  a  year  before  they  became 
closer  friends.  She  was  the  third  daughter  of  a  the- 
atrical  family,  the   father   of   which  was  a   stage  car- 


306         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

penter,  the  mother  a  dresser,  and  the  two  elder 
daughters  ladies  of  the  ballet.  They  were  hard-work- 
ing, respectable  people,  anil  she  only  had  not  followed  in 
the  footsteps  of  her  sisters  because  of  her  slighter 
physique. 

They  became  engaged,  but  although  his  income  was 
now  large  enough  for  him  to  have  been  able  to  marry, 
there  was  his  father  to  be  considered.  So  they  waited 
patiently,  without  any  thought  of  shaking  off  that  en- 
cumbrance. 

She  had  not  been  brought  up  to  church-going,  but  she 
went  with  him  to  St.  Barnabas,  and  was  proud  of  her 
lover  as,  in  scarlet  cassock  and  lace-edged  cotta,  his 
simple  face  unusually  grave,  he  held  up  the  great  pro- 
cessional cross,  and  paced  with  slow  steps  round  the 
church  at  the  head  of  the  singing  bojrs  and  men. 

His  father  fell  ill,  and  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  him 
that  he  consented  to  see  his  friend,  the  Vicar,  and,  falling 
into  great  fear  of  death  and  what  should  come  after- 
wards, was  reconciled  to  the  Church,  and  made  a  good 
end.  He  felt  no  shadow  of  doubt  that  all  his  father's 
sins  had  been  washed  away,  and  the  harm  that  he  had 
done  in  his  life  completely  wiped  out. 

A  year  later,  when  he  had  paid  off  his  father's  debts, 
he  was  married.  They  found  a  little  house  not  far  from 
the  church,  but  soon  afterwards  the  Vicar  made  his 
submission  to  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  they  began  to 
think  of  moving  to  a  less  crowded  quarter.  Londoners 
born,  as  both  of  them  were,  they  hankered  after  the 
country  joys  of  which  they  had  tasted  during  their 
short  honeymoon,  and  on  holiday  excursions  to  Kew, 
Richmond,  and   Hampstead. 

The  Vicar's  "going  over"  had  disturbed  him;  he 
had  thoughts  of  "  going  over  "  too.  and  for  a  time  wag 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  307 

unhappy.  The  controversy  that  seethed  around  him 
hardly  affected  him;  he  knew  very  little  of  what  other 
churches  and  other  religious  bodies  taught  and  believed, 
and  had  never  speculated  on  matters  of  doctrine.  He 
had  been  happy  in  practising  such  religious  duties  as 
were  enjoined  upon  him,  and  if  those  about  him  had 
talked  bitterly  and  contemptuously  of  other  forms  of  be- 
lief, he  had  sat  silent,  and  felt  only  discomfort. 

He  looked  up  to  the  Vicar  as  a  very  holy,  learned 
man,  but  shrank  from  plunging  into  new  and  untried 
waters.  His  mind  had  been  at  peace  for  a  long  time, 
and  he  was  sure  that  the  happiness  he  now  enjoyed, — 
the  satisfaction  he  found  in  his  daily  work,  the  love  and 
companionship  of  his  home,  the  freedom  from  anxiety 
over  money,  which  had  come  about  since  his  father's 
death,  and  the  interest  and  colour  he  gained  from  his 
association  with  St.  Barnabas  —  all  sprang  from  a  di- 
vine source ;  and  he  came  to  feel  that  he  would  be  show- 
ing ingratitude  if  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  means 
through  which  his  blessings  had  come  to  him. 

So  he  said  good-bye  to  the  Vicar,  sad  at  losing  a 
friend,  but  without  any  expression  of  a  desire  to  see  him 
again,  and  once  more  regained  his  serenity. 

A  few  months  later,  he  and  his  wife  set  up  their  home 
in  a  little  villa  in  the  new  suburb  of  Greenleys. 

II 

A  few  years  before,  Greenleys  had  been  a  place  of 
large  comfortable  red-brick  or  white-painted  houses, 
hugging  their  seclusion  behind  high  walls  or  thick  shrub- 
beries. There  were  green  fields,  where  you  could  find 
primroses  in  the  spring,  and  where  hay  was  cut  in  the 
summer.     The  few  shops  were  on  either  side  of  a  strip 


308         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

of  green,  at  the  end  of  which  was  an  inn,  with  a  painted 
sign  standing  out  boldly  on  the  vdge  of  the  roadway, 

and  a  wooden  trough  beneath  it.  Here  the  horses  draw- 
ing the  early  market  carts  from  the  gardens  beyond 
used  to  drink,  while  their  drivers  regaled  themselves  in- 
side, or  in  sunny  weather  on  benches  under  the  latticed 
windows. 

But  the  nearer  London  suburbs  were  already  doomed, 
and  Grccnleys  was  one  of  the  first  to  be  nibbled  at  by 
the  speculative  builder.  A  London  banker  died,  and  his 
large  house,  with  its  twenty  or  thirty  acres  of  garden 
and  orchard  and  meadow,  came  into  the  market.  If 
another  rich  man  had  bought  it,  the  devastation  might 
have  been  averted  for  a  few  years  longer.  But  the 
ground  was  too  valuable;  there  was  a  great  army  of 
small  people  demanding  to  be  housed  within  reach  of 
their  daily  work  in  the  great  city;  and  it  is  profitable 
to  house  such  people,  who  are  content  with  so  little  in 
the  way  of  space,  and  pay  so  much  more  for  it  in  pro- 
portion than  the  rich  man.  So  streets  of  little  villas, 
each  with  its  patch  of  garden  in  front  and  its  fenced-in 
space  behind,  sprang  up  where  the  cedars  and  velvety 
lawns,  and  the  apple-trees  and  deep  meadows  had  been ; 
and  no  sooner  was  the  paint  dry  on  their  woodwork 
than  some  London  clerk,  or  small  business  man,  eager 
to  live  "  a  little  way  out  "  took  possession  of  them. 

The  bookkeeper  and  his  wife  thought  themselves  for- 
tunate in  securing  one  of  a  row  of  houses  so  small  and 
so  cheap  that  at  that  time  there  was  nothing  to  equal 
them  near  London  within  touch  of  fields  and  hedgerows. 
It  was  in  Cedar  Lane,  so  called  because  in  one  of  the 
little  back  gardens  was  a  fine  tree  saved  from  the  wreck 
of  the  rich  man's  grounds.  At  the  bottom  of  their 
own  garden  was  a  group  of  lilacs,  which  flowered  pro- 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  309 

fusely  in  early  summer,  and  of  which  they  were  im- 
mensely proud.  All  the  houses  in  Cedar  Lane  were 
snapped  up  before  they  were  finished,  and  within  a 
month  of  the  final  rolling  down  of  the  roadway,  the  lane 
had  the  air  of  a  long-established  street,  where  life  was 
regular  and  ordered,  and  certain  things  happened  at 
certain  hours  of  the  day. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  great  exodus  began,  and 
went  on  for  an  hour  or  more.  Men  dressed  in  black 
coats  and  tall  hats, — ■  every  self-respecting  clerk  wore 
a  tall  hat  in  those  days  —  would  come  out  of  the  little 
houses,  clang  to  the  front  gates,  and  sometimes  with  a 
farewell  wave  to  the  wives  who  stood  at  the  door,  some- 
times with  a  glance  back  at  the  windows,  or  at  the  wall- 
flowers or  pansies  in  the  little  strips  behind  the  iron 
railings,  would  hurry  off  to  their  day's  work.  Mixed 
with  the  black-coated  men  were  the  children  going  to 
school,  who  sometimes  accompanied  them  to  the  end  of 
the  lane;  and  sometimes  the  wives,  if  they  were  newly 
married,  walked  with  them.  The  lane,  between  eight 
and  nine,  was  fuM  of  hurrying  figures,  coming  from  its 
own  houses,  or  passing  through  it  from  those  beyond ; 
and  the  clang  of  the  iron  gates  sounded  continuously, 
like  musket  fire  in  the  battle  which  all  these  men  were 
waging, —  the  battle  for  food  and  shelter,  for  them- 
selves and  those  dependent  on  them,  and  perhaps  for 
something  more  in  the  future. 

Soon  after  nine  o'clock  the  exodus  would  cease. 
There  were  no  more  males  to  be  seen  in  Cedar  Lane,  ex- 
cept the  boys  with  the  butchers'  trays  and  the  bakers' 
and  grocers'  baskets,  but  only  women  and  little  nurse- 
maids and  babies'  perambulators.  And  for  the  rest  of 
the  day  the  sun  would  shine  upon  a  place  almost  as  quiet 
as  it  had  been  when  the  bees  had  hummed  about  the 


310  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

r-beds,  and  the  thrushes  had  carolled  in  the  blos- 
soming lilacs  that  had  been  where  the  houses  now  were. 

In  the  evening  the  breadwinners  would  return,  and 
the  garden  gates  go  on  opening  and  shutting  until 
every  one  was  gathered  in,  with  one  more  day's  work 
finished,  and  a  few  hours  of  home-life  won  from  the 
never-ceasing  struggle.  And  where  only  the  night  wind 
had  breathed  over  the  lawns  and  trees  and  flowers,  there 
were  a  thousand  living  influences, —  love,  care,  joy, 
sorrow,  fear,  innocence,  hope,  youth  looking  forward, 
age  looking  back  —  and  in  every  little  house  a  human 
story  as  interesting  as  any  that  the  big  house,  now 
gone,  had  contained. 

Every  morning,  shortly  before  nine  o'clock,  the  book- 
keeper, who  was  now  about  five  and  thirty,  and  his  wife, 
who  was  some  eight  or  nine  years  younger,  would  come 
out  of  a  house  in  the  middle  of  the  row,  to  which  she 
would  return  by  herself  a  quarter  of  an  hour  liter. 
Every  evening  at  about  six  o'clock  she  would  come  out 
again  and  return  with  him.  On  summer  evenings  they 
might  come  out  again  a  little  later  and  walk  in  the 
fields,  which  were  rapidly  being  swallowed  up  by  streets 
and  streets  of  such  houses  as  had  been  built  in  Cedar 
Lane,  or  by  houses  a  little  bigger.  On  winter  evenings 
the  door  would  shut  on  them,  not  to  be  opened  again 
until  the  next  morning. 

Every  Sunday  they  went  twice  to  the  Parish  Church. 
During  the  first  years  of  their  residence,  before  the  small 
houses  had  taken  the  place  of  most  of  the  big  ones,  it 
was  fashionably  attended,  and  more  important  men 
thazi  the  bookkeeper  filled  its  few  offices.  The  Hector 
did  not  visit  except  among  the  older  residents.  He  was 
a  fluent  preacher,  and  the  two  humble  members  of  his 
congregation  who  were  always  in  their  seats  in  the  gal- 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  311 

lery  on  Sunday  mornings  and  evenings,  and  at  the  week- 
night  service,  were  among  his  most  appreciative  hearers, 
although  they  had  never  spoken  to  him. 

There  were  no  early  communion  services  at  this 
church,  and  one  of  the  curates  at  St.  Barnabas,  who 
visited  them  soon  after  they  had  settled  at  Greenleys, 
professed  himself  shocked  at  their  being  content  with 
such  churchgoing  as  they  now  practised.  They  ought, 
he  said,  at  least  to  make  a  point  of  going  to  early  mass, 
even  if  they  preferred  to  attend  their  parish  church 
later  in  the  day.  So  they  went  in  to  St.  Barnabas  every 
Sunday  morning  very  early,  as  long  as  the  summer 
lasted,  walking  a  mile  and  then  taking  a  tram,  and  not 
breakfasting  until  they  reached  home  again.  Then  they 
gave  it  up,  because  the  wife  was  getting  near  her  con- 
finement and  the  long  journey  without  food  was  too 
much  for  her.  They  became  attached  to  the  Parish 
Church,  for  the  music  was  good,  and  they  thought  the 
preaching  was ;  and  they  liked  to  go  out  of  their  house 
and  join  a  stream  of  churchgoers,  most  of  whom  they 
knew  at  least  by  sight,  and  to  feel  that  they  were  one 
of  a  large  family. 

The  child  was  born  some  hours  before  it  was  expected. 
He  received  a  telegram  at  his  office,  and  with  some  mis- 
giving asked  for  leave  of  absence,  which  was  at  once 
granted  to  him,  as  in  all  the  twenty  years  of  his  service 
he  had  never  been  away  from  his  work  for  an  hour,  ex- 
cept at  the  appointed  times  of  holiday. 

He  hurried  home  as  fast  as  he  could,  with  a  feeling  of 
terror  and  dreariness  at  his  heart.  Surely  he  would 
not  have  been  sent  for  if  there  had  not  been  serious 
danger ! 

But  when  he  reached  the  house  he  was  told  that  a 
daughter  had  been  born  to  him,  and  his  wife  had  come 


312         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

through  her  confinement  well.  He  burst  into  tears,  at 
which  he  was  much  ashamed,  and  not  a  little  surprised, 
for  his  sensations  were  only  those  of  great  happiness. 

When  he  had  calmed  himself,  he  was  allowed  to  go  up 
and  see  his  wife,  who  smiled  at  him,  and  showed  him  the 
little  dark  head  in  the  hollow  of  her  shoulder. 

He  was  greatly  moved,  and  felt  like  weeping  again, 
but  controlled  himself,  and  when  he  was  alone  again 
knelt  down  and  thanked  God  for  His  wonderful  good- 
ness, and  promised  to  bring  up  the  child  as  His  servant. 

Ill 

They  called  the  child  Mary.  His  wife's  mother  and 
sisters  came  to  the  christening,  and  brought  gifts.  The 
two  former  dancers  were  now  married,  and  had  left  the 
stage,  but  their  talk  was  all  of  theatrical  matters.  They 
admired  the  baby,  and  prophesied  a  glorious  career 
for  her  behind  the  footlights.  It  was  their  highest  idea 
of  success  in  life,  and  they  meant  to  be  nothing  but  com- 
plimentary and  encouraging.  But  to  him,  feeding  on 
visions  of  his  child  brought  up  in  a  garden  enclosed,  un- 
touched by  any  spot  of  worldliness,  their  anticipations 
seemed  unclean  and  degrading.  He  was  glad  when  they 
went  away  and  left  him  alone  with  his  wife  and  child. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  imagine  any  one  happier 
than  he  was  now.  There  was  nothing  in  life  he  could 
have  desired  that  he  had  not.  He  came  home  from 
his  work  every  evening  with  the  brightest  anticipations 
of  pleasure.  He  loved  the  tiny  infant  so  much  that  the 
place  in  which  she  was  seemed  irradiated.  On  Sundays, 
when  he  awoke  and  realized  that  he  would  not  have 
to  leave  her  for  a  whole  day,  he  had  an  access  of  the 
keenest  joy.     And  yet  his  work  was  done  better,  if  that 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  313 

were  possible,  than  it.  had  ever  been.  His  whole  being 
expanded  with  happiness.  His  brain  was  keener,  his 
bodily  health  more  assured.  The  attitude  of  his  fellow- 
clerks,  who  had  always  liked  him  in  a  half-contemptuous 
way,  insensibly  changed  towards  him.  His  simplicity 
was  touched  with  a  spiritual  light,  and  it  would  have 
seemed  almost  irreverence  to  belittle  it. 

As  the  years  went  on,  the  halo  of  brightness  only 
seemed  to  surround  him  more  brightly.  The  child  grew 
into  a  lovely,  gentle,  smiling  little  creature,  whose  life 
knew  no  shadows,  so  devotedly  was  she  cared  for  by 
father  and  mother  alike. 

They  kept  her  a  great  deal  to  themselves.  The  chil- 
dren of  the  few  neighbours  whom  they  knew  seemed 
to  them  rough  and  dirty,  unworthy  to  be  associated  with 
the  white  purity  of  their  cherished  little  one.  Other 
mothers  became  jealous  of  her,  and  said  she  was  being 
brought  up  above  her  station.  And,  indeed,  they  spent 
more  on  her  dainty  clothes  than  on  their  own,  and  more, 
but  for  the  bare  simplicity  of  their  lives,  than  they 
could  have  afforded. 

She  returned  them  all  the  love  they  lavished  on  her. 
She  would  sit  on  her  father's  knee,  snuggling  up  to  him, 
in  that  corner  of  the  little  garden  where  the  blossoming 
lilac  made  a  retired  bower,  and  he  would  tell  her  Bible 
stories, —  about  Adam  and  Eve  walking  in  a  garden, 
full  of  bright,  sweet-scented  flowers,  a  garden  from  which 
no  houses  could  be  seen,  and  where  God  Himself  walked 
with  them  in  the  cool  of  the  evening;  about  Joseph  and 
his  bright  coat,  and  his  dreams,  and  the  jealousy  of  his 
brothers ;  about  the  infant  Samuel,  and  how  God  called 
him  in  the  night,  and  he  answered;  about  David,  the 
young  shepherd,  who  played  beautifully  upon  the  harp, 
and  killed  the  giant  with  a  stone  from  his  sling;  about 


31-fc         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

the  poor  little  Mephibosheth,  who  was  lame  of  both 
his  feet,  and  from  being  very  poor  and  in  hiding  came 
to  be  treated  as  the  King's  son  that  he  was;  about  Ruth 
in  the  cornfields,  and  Esther  in  the  King's  palace ;  and 
about  the  child  Jesus,  and  the  love  that  his  mother  bore 
him,  and  of  his  loving  little  children  afterwards.  But 
he  told  her  none  of  the  stories  of  fighting  and  murder 
and  passion,  for  although  he  accepted  all  these  as  part 
of  God's  way  with  man,  and  as  handed  down  for  our 
instruction,  he  held  them  unfit  as  yet  for  those  tender 
ears. 

When  she  was  old  enough  her  mother  began  to  teach 
her  little  lessons ;  but  the  children  of  humble  folk  are 
not  allowed  to  be  so  taught,  and  after  the  visit  of  a 
school  inspector  it  became  necessary  to  send  her  to 
school.  Most  of  the  neighbours'  children  went  to  the 
elementary  Church  school,  but  they  shrank  from  send- 
ing her  there  to  mix  with  the  rest,  and  perhaps  to  learn 
bad  words  and  bad  habits.  So  they  sent  her  to  a  lady 
who  had  been  a  governess,  and  taught  half  a  dozen  lit- 
tle girls  in  her  own  house.  The  education  was  not 
nearly  so  good  as  at  the  elementary  school,  and  it  cost 
them  money  besides,  though  not  very  much.  The 
mother  always  accompanied  her  to  and  fro,  and  of  the 
few  children  who  were  her  schoolfellows  a  careful  se- 
lection was  made  of  two  whom  she  might  sometimes  play 
with. 

When  she  was  eleven  years  old,  it  became  impossible 
to  keep  her  any  longer  at  this  poor  little  school.  At 
Handbury,  a  mile  nearer  to  London,  there  was  a  High 
School,  and  with  some  searchings  of  heart  her  parents 
decided  to  send  her  there.  Many  of  the  inhabitants  of 
Greenleys,  better  off  then  they  were,  sent  their  girls  to 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  315 

this  school,  and  it  was  not  possible  now  to  keep  her 
from  making  her  own  friends.  But  she  made  none  whom 
her  parents  could  well  object  to.  She  learnt  quickly, 
and  made  special  progress  in  music  and  dancing.  She 
was  always  well-dressed,  she  was  very  pretty,  and  had 
quiet,  rather  shy  manners.  No  one  would  have  taken 
her  for  the  daughter  of  a  poor  clerk;  and  her  grand- 
mother and  aunts,  on  the  rare  occasions  on  which  they 
saw  her,  repeated  their  protestations  at  the  wickedness 
of  keeping  so  fair  a  flower  out  of  her  rightful  inheri- 
tance of  admiration.  It  would  be  a  sin,  they  said,  not 
to  let  her  go  on  the  stage  when  she  was  old  enough. 
She  must  take  all  hearts,  and  bring  a  glory  to  the 
family  name,  which,  in  spite  of  strenuous  efforts,  it  had 
never  yet  attained  to. 

Her  father  grew  accustomed  to  these  speeches,  al- 
though he  never  heard  them  without  an  inward  shudder. 
The  girl,  in  spite  of  her  successes,  and  the  friends  she 
now  had  among  the  families  of  her  schoolfellows  who 
were  in  a  better  position  than  she  was,  remained  soft 
and  loving  towards  him.  She  went  to  church  with  him 
and  her  mother  twice  every  Sunday,  and  in  summer  time 
for  walks  in  the  now  fast-disappearing  fields.  She  was 
his  daughter  still,  and  the  constant  pride  of  his  heart. 
For  fifteen  years  he  had  led  a  life  as  completely  happy 
as  falls  to  the  lot  of  any  man,  and  she,  as  a  baby,  a 
little  child,  and  a  growing  girl,  had  brought  the  greater 
part  of  it,  although  his  gentle  wife,  his  work,  his  free- 
dom from  the  cares  that  were  so  frequent  all  around 
him,  and  his  simple,  unclouded  faith,  had  all  played 
their  part. 

His  life  passed  in  such  absolute  sameness  that,  be- 
yond their  yearly  fortnight  at  the  seaside,  the  holidays 


316         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

at  home  at  Christmas  and  Easter,  and  the  changes  of 
the  seasons,  there  had  been  nothing  to  mark  it  except 
the  growth  of  the  child,  and  the  episodes  of  her  school- 
days. 

One  evening  he  came  home  in  deep  dejection,  which 
he  could  not  keep  from  his  wife  and  daughter;  but  it 
was  some  time  before  he  could  bring  himself  to  tell  them 
what  had  happened.  When  he  did  tell  them  they  were 
nearly  as  troubled  as  he  was. 

He  had  made  a  blot  on  the  fair  page  of  the  great 
ledger,  which  was  full  of  his  exquisitely  neat  even  writ- 
ing, and  was  one  of  a  long  line  of  such  books,  in  none 
of  which  had  such  a  thing  happened  before.  It  was  his 
great  pride  that  never  yet  had  he  had  to  make  an 
erasure.  He  did  not  suppose  that  there  was  a  book- 
keeper in  the  city  of  London  who  could  say  the  same,  or 
a  firm  whose  books  might  all  so  well  be  shown  as  a  model 
to  aspiring  youth. 

Of  course  the  blot  could  be,  and  had  been,  taken 
out,  so  that  none  but  a  very  careful  observer  could  tell 
that  it  had  ever  been  there.  But  that  did  not  console 
him.  He  had  half  a  mind  to  buy  a  new  ledger  and  copy 
out  all  the  entries  he  had  made  through  many  months ; 
but  even  that  would  not  do  away  with  the  memory  of 
his  carelessness.  He  had  made  the  blot,  and  nothing 
could  do  away  with  it.  It  was  like  what  the  Bishop 
had  said,  when  he  preached  in  Greenlevs  Church.  A 
sin  would  be  forgiven  you  if  you  repented  of  it,  but  its 
effects  remained.  Nothing  could  ever  be  as  it  was  be- 
fore the  sin  was  committed. 

So  he  made  a  parable  of  his  error,  and  resigned  him- 
self by  degrees  to  the  loss  of  the  fine  perfection  of  his 
record. 

When  his  daughter  was   fifteen  she  was   confirmed. 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  317 

This  was  the  culminating  point  of  his  pride  in  her.  She 
was  so  good  and  so  beautiful  that  as  she  went  up  to  the 
altar  rails  and  knelt  there  all  in  maiden  white,  he 
thought  that  God,  to  whom  he  had  dedicated  her  at  her 
birth,  must  be  pleased  at  the  gift  of  so  pure  a  soul; 
and  when  the  hands  of  the  Bishop  were  laid  on  the  fair 
comely  head,  that  He  was  finally  accepting  his  offering, 
and  would  pour  gifts  above  the  ordinary  on  his  child. 


IV 

During  all  the  years  of  his  marriage  none  but  two 
had  passed  without  his  putting  by  some  money.  There 
had  been  no  illness  to  drain  his  little  store,  and  only 
when  they  had  moved  out  from  London,  and  in  the  year 
following,  when  his  child  had  been  born,  had  he  spent 
the  whole  of  his  income.  A  provision  for  his  old  age, 
when  he  should  be  past  work,  was  now  well  on  the  road 
to  accomplishment,  and  he  could  even  face  with  some 
equanimity  the  idea  of  death  coming  to  himself  before 
he  should  have  finished  his  work,  for  he  would  not  leave 
his  wife  and  child  quite  unprovided  for. 

But  he  had  not  saved  enough,  and  could  not  save 
enough,  to  make  it  right  that  his  daughter  should  live 
at  home  like  the  daughters  of  more  fortunate  men,  with- 
out doing  something  to  earn  a  living  for  herself.  As 
long  as  he  was  there,  and  able  to  provide  for  them,  all 
would  be  well ;  but  if  he  died,  and  they  were  left  to  their 
own  resources,  she  would  have  to  work,  and  it  might 
then  be  more  difficult  to  place  her  as  she  ought  to  be 
placed. 

When  she  was  sixteen,  after  careful  consideration  and 
enquiry,  they  apprenticed  her  to  a  milliner  at  Hand- 
bury.     They  had  rejected  every  occupation  in  which 


318  THE  CLIXTOXS,  AXD  OTHERS 

she  would  have  to  work  in  public,  or  in  semi-public,  and 
they  were  averse  to  her  taking  the  daily  journey  to  and 
from  London.  Whore  she  was,  .she  was  in  responsible 
care,  and  spent  little  time  in  going  to  and  from  her 
work.  She  left  home  at  the  same  time  as  her  father, 
and  returned  before  lum,  so  that  he  did  not  miss  her 
at  any  time  from  his  home. 

She  showed  quick  aptitude  for  her  work  and  was 
contented  with  it.  Life  flowed  on  smoothly,  as  before, 
and  she  never  expressed  a  wish  for  an}7  recreation  or 
excitement  outside  her  quiet  home.  Sometimes  she  went 
to  the  houses  of  one  or  other  of  her  old  schoolfellows, 
but  for  the  most  part  had  only  the  companionship  of  her 
father  and  mother. 

When  she  had  been  at  work  for  rather  more  than  a 
year,  her  mother  began  to  complain  of  pain  in  her 
breast.  It  came  out  that  she  had  borne  it  for  a  long 
time,  but  it  was  getting  worse;  she  could  no  longer  do 
the  work  of  the  house,  and  she  thought  she  ought  to  see 
a  doctor. 

The  dreadful  verdict  was  "  cancer  " —  an  advanced 
case.  She  died  about  the  time  that  her  daughter  had 
finished  her  apprenticeship.  She  had  been  most  tenderly 
nursed  at  home,  and  had  undergone  two  operations  to 
prolong  her  life  by  a  few  months.  This  had  brought 
great  expense,  and  had  reduced  the  savings  of  years  by 
half. 

Father  and  daughter  lived  on  in  the  little  home,  now 
greatly  saddened.  She  went  on  with  her  work  in  the 
same  shop,  at  a  small  salary.  They  had  a  servant,  but 
she  did  not  sleep  in  the  house,  and  they  were  alone  to- 
gether in  the  evenings,  and  for  most  of  Sundays. 

Xot  many  months  after  his  wife's  death,  he  began  to 
be  greatly  troubled  with  rheumatism,  which  chiefly  af- 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  319 

fected  his  wrists.  This  meant  more  doctors,  and  treat- 
ment which  also  cost  money,  but  did  nothing  to  improve 
his  condition.  A  year  later  he  wrote  with  difficulty, 
and  was  beyond  the  capacity  to  lift  the  heavy  ledgers 
with  which  he  had  to  deal  during  his  daily  work.  The 
firm  which  had  employed  him  parted  with  him  with  re- 
gret, and  gave  him  a  gratuity  of  a  hundred  pounds. 

He  got  a  post  as  bookkeeper  in  one  of  the  big  stores 
that  had  taken  the  place  of  the  old-fashioned  shops  in 
Greenleys,  but  was  unable  to  keep  it  long,  as  he  could 
now  scarcely  hold  a  pen  in  his  crippled  fingers. 

They  moved  from  the  little  villa  where  they  had  been 
so  happy  into  three  tiny  rooms  in  an  old  cottage.  It 
was  in  a  quiet  back  lane  near  the  Park,  which  had  once 
been  the  garden  and  paddocks  of  a  large  house,  and  they 
counted  themselves  fortunate  in  finding  so  pleasant  a 
refuge,  still  in  the  place  to  which  they  clung.  But  their 
money  dwindled.  There  was  ndt  enough  left  to  keep 
them  for  more  than  a  year  or  two. 

His  daughter,  who  was  now  nineteen,  told  him,  lov- 
ingly, but  with  tears,  that  she  had  had  an  offer,  through 
one  of  her  aunts,  to  dance  and  sing  in  the  chorus  of  a 
London  theatre,  and  had  accepted  it.  She  could  not 
expect  to  earn  enough  in  her  present  situation,  to  keep 
them  both,  for  years  to  come. 

He  accepted  her  decision  uncomplainingly,  but  with 
anguish  at  his  heart.  Greenleys  was'  not  then  in  such 
communication  with  London  as  to  permit  of  her  com- 
ing home  every  night  after  the  play  was  ended,  and  she 
lodged  with  one  of  her  aunts.  But  she  spent  every 
Sunday  and  most  of  Monday  with  him,  and  they  went  to 
church  together,  and  walked  in  the  Park,  and  sometimes 
went  farther  afield.  These  were  days  of  joy  to  him; 
the  rest  of  the  week  he  spent  mostly  in  patient  idleness, 


S20         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

thinking  of  the  happiness  of  his  past  life,  reading  in  his 
Bible  —  he  did  not  care  for  other  books  —  and  keeping 
an  eye  on  the  children  of  the  overworked  women  who 
were  his  neighbours,  and  treated  him  with  great  respect. 
He  could  do  little  for  himself,  but  was  well  in  health,  al- 
though now  much  crippled. 

He  never  went  to  sec  his  daughter  on  the  stage,  and 
she  did  not  ask  him  to  go,  nor  ever  talked  about  her 
experiences  of  the  theatre.  She  was  the  same  sweet, 
quiet,  loving  child  to  him  that  she  had  always  been,  and 
her  refinement  of  speech  and  manner,  which  had  always 
been  far  above  her  station,  seemed  to  have  increased,  if 
anything. 

By  and  by,  seeing  her  always  as  he  would  have  her, 
he  grew  reconciled  to  her  occupation,  and,  but  that  he 
thought  of  her  continually  while  she  was  away  from  him, 
would  almost  have  forgotten  it.  He  never  saw  her  more 
than  simply  dressed,  and  only  when  his  sister-in-law 
came  to  see  him,  and  told  him  that  she  had  been  pro- 
moted from  the  ranks,  and  was  already  beginning  to 
"  catch  on,"  did  he  accept  without  remonstrance  the  ex- 
tra delicacies  and  comforts  that  she  loved  to  bring  him. 

"  You  couldn't  have  brought  her  up  better  for  the 
purpose,"  said  the  ex-dancer.  "  It's  because  she's  so 
innocent  and  quiet,  and  pretty  and  clever  with  it  all, 
that  she's  different  from  the  rest.  If  her  voice  was  a 
bit  stronger  she'd  be  leading  lady,  and  earning  her 
hundred  pounds   a   week,   or   more,   tomorrow." 

Then  it  was  for  this  that  he  had  cherished  and  shel- 
tered her  childhood  and  youth!  God's  ways  with  man 
were  difficult  to  understand;  but  he  gained  some  com- 
fort from  the  idea  that  her  influence  would  purify  the 
lives  of  those  about  her. 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  321 


They  often  talked  together  of  her  mother,  not  sadly 
now,  but  as  if  she  were  near  them,  and  knew  what  they 
were  doing.  But  one  Sunday,  when  he  mentioned  her 
name,  the  girl  cried,  and  said  she  missed  her  more  than 
ever. 

He  was  troubled  all  the  week  by  the  memory  of  her 
tears,  which  were  unlike  her,  but  the  next  Sunday  she 
was  happy  again,  and  even  gay ;  her  sadness  did  not  re- 
turn, and  she  seemed  to  become  more  tender  and  loving 
towards  him  as  the  months  rolled  by,  and  he  became 
more  and  more  helpless. 

The  old  Rector  whose  preaching  he  and  his  wife  had 
so  much  admired  was  long  since  in  his  grave,  and  more 
than  one  had  succeeded  him.  The  church  had  com- 
pletely changed,  both  in  appearance  and  method,  and 
was  now  nearer  in  ritual  to  what  he  remembered  of  St. 
Barnabas  than  to  what  it  had  formerly  been. 

Once  more  he  made  a  practice  of  attending  the  earli- 
est services.  He  could  just  manage  to  kneel  at  the  al- 
tar-rails, and  receive  the  consecrated  bread  in  his  dis- 
torted hands ;  the  chalice  was  held  to  his  lips.  He 
gained  great  consolation  from  these  services,  and  fed 
on  them  in  spirit  until  the  time  when  his  daughter  should 
come  to  him  later  in  the  morning. 

The  Rector  visited  him  regularly.  He  was  an  aus- 
tere, unsmiling  man,  and  asked  him  many  questions. 

One  afternoon  he  came  to  him  as  he  was  sitting  in  the 
tiny  garden  of  the  cottage,  where  there  was  a  lilac-tree 
that  reminded  him  of  the  one  in  his  old  garden.  He 
asked  him  about  his  daughter,  but  cut  short  his  answers 
by  telling  him  that  it  had  come  to  his  ears  that  she  had 
left  the  theatre  some  time  before,  and  was  living  as  the 


322  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

mistress  of  a  rich  man  well  known  in  society,  who  was 
already  married.  He  told  him  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
reclaim  her.  Better  a  life  of  the  direst  poverty  than  a 
life  of  sin. 

When  the  Rector  had  gone,  he  sat  on  under  the  blos- 
soming lilac  with  no  power  of  thought  left  him,  but 
only  a  feeling  of  sad  desolation.  It  did  not  occur  to 
him  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  statement,  but  his  love 
for  his  daughter  was  stronger  than  before. 

When  she  came  to  him  the  next  Sunday,  she  saw  at 
once  that  he  knew.  She  threw  herself  on  his  breast,  and 
wept,  and  asked  him  to  forgive  her  for  the  sorrow  she 
had  caused  him. 

But  she  would  not  promise  to  leave  the  man  she  loved. 
He  had  a  wife  with  whom  he  had  lived  wretchedly.  He 
was  good  to  her,  and  had  taken  her  from  the  stage, 
which  she  now  told  her  father  she  had  always  hated. 
She  could  not  bear  to  go  back  to  it.  They  were  happy 
together,  and  she  loved  him  dearly.  She  had  not  given 
in  to  him  until  after  he  had  been  kind  to  her  for  a  long 
time. 

He  was  cut  to  the  heart.  When  she  had  left  him,  and 
he  thought  of  the  white  purity  of  her  childhood,  and 
the  reverence  he  had  paid  to  it  as  the  gift  of  God,  to 
Whom  he  had  dedicated  her  from  her  birth,  the  slow 
tears  fell  one  by  one  down  his  cheeks.  He  felt  himself 
forsaken,  his  offering  rejected.  The  days  when  he  had 
so  loved  her  as  a  little  child  seemed  to  belong  to  another 
world,  and  the  rare  brightness  of  the  one  in  which  he 
was  now  living  to  have  gone  out  of  it  altogether. 

She  continued  to  come  to  him  every  Sunday.  She 
was  very  tender  and  loving  with  him.  She  talked  to  him 
of  her  lover,  and  the  quiet  life  she  led,  both  when  she 


THE  BOOKKEEPER  323 

was  alone  and  when  he  was  with  her ;  and  he  listened,  but 
said  nothing. 

But  he  refused  any  longer  to  take  gifts  from  her,  or 
to  allow  her  to  share  in  the  rent  of  the  three  little  rooms 
they  had  occupied  together.  She  pleaded  with  him,  but 
to  no  purpose.  He  could  not  prevent  her  keeping  on 
her  bedroom,  and  what  had  been  their  joint  sitting- 
room,  and  made  no  attempt  to  do  so.  When  she  was 
there, —  and  she  came  sometimes  in  the  week  now,  as 
well  as  on  Sundays  —  he  occupied  it  with  her ;  but  when 
he  was  alone  he  kept  to  his  bedroom,  and  took  his  meals 
with  the  woman  of  the  house.  When  his  money  should 
be  used  up,  he  would  be  able  to  live  there  no  longer. 
But  he  did  not  look  forward. 

The  Rector,  who  had  been  away  for  a  holiday,  came 
and  asked  him  what  he  had  done.  When  he  heard  that 
he  had  done  nothing,  and  that  his  daughter  still  visited 
him,  he  rebuked  him  sternly  for  his  weakness,  and  ended 
by  saying  that  if  he  did  not  repudiate  her  he  was  sharing 
in  her  sin,  and  could  no  longer  be  received  at  the  altar. 

He  never  told  her  this,  and  she  did  not  know  that  he 
hungered  for  the  spiritual  food  denied  him,  nor  that  the 
tender  and  serene  affection  he  showed  her  hid  a  dark 
emptiness  of  soul  that  only  became  deeper  as  the  days 
went  by. 

He  took  to  his  bed,  and  never  rose  from  it  again.  He 
was  crushed  by  the  weight  of  his  punishment,  but  suf- 
fered in  patience,  because  he  was  sure  that  he  was  a 
sinner  abdve  other  men,  perhaps  even  in  this  earthly 
affection  which  he  still  clung  to.  But  he  would  not 
deny  her.  She  was  his  dearly  loved  daughter;  if  she 
perished,  he  would  perish  with  her. 

He  lay  where  he  could  see  the  lilac  in  the  garden. 


324  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

The  only  times  of  freedom  from  distress  that  lie  knew 
wen'  when,  in  long  hours  of  silence,  he  could  almost 
think  that  he  was  once  more  back  in  the  years  when  she 
had  been  his  little  child.  He  thought  often  of  his  dead 
wife,  and  his  thoughts  came  to  centre  round  the  years 
of  their  early  married  life,  and  the  after-years  when  she 
had  been  in  pain  faded  from  his  memory.  When  he  be- 
came weaker  he  regained  something  like  contentment  at 
times,  but  the  sorrow  of  his  later  life  lurked  always  in 
the  background,  and  he  still  felt  that  he  was  forsaken 
of  God. 

But  when  his  daughter  was  with  him  he  forgot  his 
sorrow. 

He  was  quite  alone  when  he  died.  His  wandering 
thoughts  had  gone  back  to  the  day  on  which,  in  the 
midst  of  his  constant  happiness,  he  had  made  the  blot  in 
his  ledger;  and  he  muttered  to  himself  regrets  at  that 
staining  of  his  page. 

But,  after  a  long  silence,  his  face  changed,  and  took 
on  an  expression  of  wonderment.  He  half-raised  him- 
self on  his  pillows,  and  looked  out  into  and  beyond  the 
little  room  in  which  he  was  lying,  as  if  he  saw  something 
glorious  and  comforting  beyond  belief. 

He  stretched  out  his  disfigured  hands  towards  it. 
"  The  book  !  The  book  !  "  he  whispered.  "  Clean  and 
White!     The  blot  wiped  out!" 

Then,  with  a  smile,  he  laid  himself  meekly  down  to 
rest. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR 


W 


"\  T  7ELL'"  said  the  Squire,  "  if  this  is  French 
food,  give  me  English." 

He  and  his  daughter,  Nancy,  sat  at  their 
lunch  in  an  hotel  at  Havre.  In  all  the  seventy-four 
years  of  his  life,  during  most  of  which  he  had  had  the 
money  and  the  leisure  to  go  anywhere  he  pleased,  this 
was  the  first  time  he  had  been  out  of  England.  And  it 
would  certainly  be  the  last  time. 

Nancy  smiled  at  him.  He  had  eaten  a  hearty  lunch, 
in  spite  of  his  frequent  exclamations.  "  They  will  give 
us  good  coffee,  at  any  rate,"  she  said.  "  Shall  we  have 
it  outside?  " 

"  Anything  to  get  out  of  this  dog's  hole,"  said  the 
Squire,  rising  from  the  table. 

They  went  slowly  through  the  room,  for  the  Squire 
had  what  he  called  a  touch  of  rheumatism,  which  meant 
walking  rather  painfully,  with  a  stick.  Many  eyes 
were  turned  upon  them,  for  there  was  that  about  both 
of  them  which  aroused  interest  and  sympathy  —  and 
perhaps  some  admiration. 

Nobody  who  knew  anything  of  English  types  could 
have  mistaken  Edward  Clinton  for  anything  but  a  coun- 
try gentleman,  of  importance  in  his  own  corner  of  the 
world,  if  of  none  in  particular  outside  it.  Just  that 
sense  of  dignity  and  assuredness  that  radiated  from  him 
could  only  have  come  from  landed  possessions.  He 
might  have  had  importance  besides,  in  larger  affairs  — 

327 


328  THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

as  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  none  —  but  it  would  not 
have  given  him  that  air.  He  was  a  tall  largely-built 
man,  with  good  features  and  a  red  health-tinted  skin, 
bushy  white  eyebrows  and  a  thick  square-cut  beard. 
There  were  no  signs  of  mourning  in  his  dress,  although 
he  had  already  lost  two  sons  in  the  war.  and  with  the 
elder  of  them  had  gone  out  much  of  the  light  that  had 
illumined  his  latter  di 

Nancy  Spence  was  of  the  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  Eng- 
lish type,  tall  and  straight,  with  delicate  colouring,  and 
a  look  of  race  in  form  and  feature.  She  might  have  had 
all  that,  and  still  been  without  beauty.  But  she  had 
beauty  too ;  the  looks  that  followed  her  told  that.  She 
was  quietly,  though  very  becomingly,  dressed,  mostl}' 
in  black.  Her  husband's  brother  had  been  killed  as  well 
as  two  of  her  own.  Her  husband  had  been  wounded  in 
the  early  days  of  the  war,  and  taken  prisoner.  After 
eighteen  months  in  Germany  he  had  been  released,  and 
interned  in  Switzerland.  She  and  her  father  were  on 
their  way  to  him  there. 

They  sat  down  at  a  little  table  immediately  outside 
the  hotel,  drank  their  coffee,  and  watched  the  unfamiliar 
show  of  the  plage.  The  Squire  was  interested,  in  spite 
of  himself.  Havre  was  full  of  English  soldiers.  A 
purely  French  crowd  might  have  been  too  much  for  him, 
though  his  old-fashioned  British  prejudice  against  the 
French  had  undergone  some  modifications  since  they  and 
the  English  had  fought  shoulder  to  shoulder. 

Nancy  talked  brightly  to  him,  pleased  to  see  him 
free  for  a  moment  from  his  brooding  thoughts,  which 
had  accompanied  him  so  far  on  their  journey,  though 
her  own  heart  was  all  the  time  singing  within  her  with 
happiness  and  expectation. 

He  had  taken  the  war  very  hard,  from  the  beginning. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  329 

He  had  turned  his  great  house  of  Kencote  over  to  the 
Red  Cross  for  a  private  hospital,  and  gone  with  his  wife 
to  live  at  the  Dower  House  hard  by,  where  he  had  occu- 
pied himself  with  all  sorts  of  war-work  set  in  hand  by  the 
county  in  which,  by  reason  of  his  wide  possessions  and 
ancient  name,  he  was  a  leading  figure.  But  he  had  no 
head  for  affairs  larger  than  those  of  estate  manage- 
ment, and  even  in  those  he  had  come  of  late  years  to 
depend  much  upon  his  eldest  son,  who  had  retired  from 
the  army  some  years  before,  to  live  on  the  estate  that 
would  one  day  be  his  own.  Dick  had  rejoined  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  and  gone  out  almost  immediately. 
How  his  father  had  missed  his  cool  head  and  capable 
way  in  all  the  duties  he  had  taken  on  his  shoulders! 
Things  went  wrong  continually.  The  Squire  fussed 
and  fumed,  and  longed  for  Dick  a  dozen  times  a  day. 
He  was  beginning  to  make  himself  a  burden  to  those 
who  worked  with  him,  and  one  committee,  of  which  he 
was  chairman,  asked  him  to  resign.  He  felt  the  slight 
all  the  more  for  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  the  request 
was  justified;  but  he  had  no  word  of  complaint  to  make 
about  the  hurt  to  his  own  dignity,  and  did  not  retire 
from  the  committee  itself,  as  he  would  certainly  have 
done  in  like  circumstances  before  the  war. 

Then  Dick  had  been  killed.  What  that  meant  to 
him  nobody  knew  but  his  quiet,  gentle  wife,  in  that  secret 
community  of  sorrow  from  which  the  world  was  shut  out. 
Outside,  he  only  seemed  rather  more  fussy  and  irritable 
than  before. 

John  Spence,  Nancy's  husband,  who  had  rejoined  his 
old  regiment  of  Guards  with  Dick,  had  been  wounded 
and  taken  prisoner  in  the  same  battle.  And  young 
Lord  Inverell,  the  husband  of  Nancy's  twin-sister,  Joan, 
had  also  been  seriously  wounded.     That  was  in  the  first 


330         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

months  of  the  war.     The  Clinton  family  had  already 
paid  a  heavy  toll. 

There  were  others  of  them  to  think  about,  and  their 
names  to  watch  for,  as  the  dread  lists  came  out  day  after 
day  —  sons,  and  another  son-in-law,  besides  innumer- 
able relations  and  connections.  But  the  chief  blows 
had  already  been  struck.  Sorrow  came  not  so  near 
Kencote  again  until  Humphrey,  the  second  son,  who  had 
come  over  with  the  Australian  forces,  was  killed  in  the 
landing  at  Gallipoli.  He  had  been  abroad  for  some 
years,  and  his  death  was  not  the  sharp  sorrow  that 
Dick's  had  been.  But  he  was  the  heir,  after  Dick. 
The  foundations  of  the  house  were  being  nibbled  away. 
When  would  this  awful  slaughter  end,  and  would  there 
be  any  of  the  next  generation  left  when  it  was  all  over? 
The  Squire  could  not  take  large  views.  The  whole 
burden  of  it  seemed  to  be  on  his  own  shoulders.  What 
he  should  do  himself  seemed  of  the  utmost  importance; 
he  worried  and  wore  himself  over  the  failure  of  others 
to  come  up  to  his  standards. 

John  Spence's  internment  was  a  godsend.  Nancy 
would  have  rushed  off  to  him  by  herself,  the  moment  the 
road  was  clear  for  her,  and  perhaps  preferred  to  do  so ; 
but  the  Squire  was  persuaded  that  he  was  the  only  man 
available  to  take  her.  He  hummed  and  ha'd,  and 
doubted  whether  he  could  be  spared,  while  his  women- 
folk dealt  subtly  with  his  hesitations,  and  his  co-workers 
assured  him  that  they  could  get  on  without  him. 

At  last  he  decided  to  go,  to  everybody's  great  relief. 
The  change  would  do  him  good;  his  mind  would  be  taken 
off.  Those  who  felt  for  him  in  his  troubles  breathed 
again ;  there  would  be  a  little  respite  for  them,  as  well 
as  for  him. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  331 

II 

Inverell  was  attached  to  the  British  Embassy  in 
Paris.  His  right  ankle  had  been  smashed  to  pulp,  and 
his  foot  had  had  to  be  amputated.  The  mending  had 
taken  a  year,  and  then  he  had  wanted  to  go  back,  but 
had  been  dissuaded.  He  and  Joan  had  installed  them- 
selves in  a  flat  in  Paris,  with  their  two  babies.  The 
Squire  and  Nancy  were  going  to  them  for  the  night, 
and  would  leave  for  Switzerland  the  next  night. 

They  arrived  at  last,  two  hours  late.  Joan  and 
Inverell  were  at  the  station  to  meet  them.  The  young 
man  hobbled,  with  a  stick.  Otherwise  he  looked  the  pic- 
ture of  youthful  health  and  vigour,  and  his  and  Joan's 
high  spirits  rather  jarred  on  the  Squire  when  the  meet- 
ing took  place,  though  Nancy  was  thrilled  through 
and  through  with  happiness.  She  was  a  stage  nearer 
to  her  beloved  man,  and  she  and  Joan  had  hardly  been 
separated  up  to  the  time  of  her  own  marriage.  She  had 
had  to  conceal  most  of  her  joy  during  the  last  day  or 
two,  for  unadulterated  pleasure  would  have  seemed  al- 
most indecent  to  ti  Squire.  But  she  knew  that  she 
could  give  it  rein  with  Joan,  in  that  long  talk  they  would 
have  together  presently.  Joan  would  understand 
everything.  She  had  been  through  her  time  of  sor- 
row, though  it  had  not  been  so  long  drawn  out  as 
Nancy's,  and  she  had  got  her  man  back. 

"  Haven't  you  brought  a  maid,  darling?  " 

The  Squire,  dealing  most  incompetently  with  hand 
luggage,  heard  the  question.  "  We  don't  want  to  drag 
servants  about  in  war  time,"  he  said.  "  We've  learnt 
to  do  things  for  ourselves." 

He  seemed  relieved,  however,  to  resign  his  cares  to 
[the  servant  in  attendance  on  Inverell,  though  he  had  his 


332  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

little  grumble  about  that.  "  Didn't  know  you'd  bring 
a  footman,"  he  said.     "  We've  got  rid  of  all  ours." 

"  Passed  out  of  the  Army,"  said  Invcrell.  "  He's 
done  his  bit.  He'll  bring  everything  along  in  a  taxi. 
Come  along,  Mr.  Clinton,  we  can  get  off." 

They  rolled  smoothly  along  in  Inverell's  big  car. 
The  streets  were  darkened,  and  nearly  empty,  though 
it  was  not  so  late  but  that  they  would  have  been  full  of 
life  and  light  in  normal  times.  The  Squire  approved. 
He  said  it  was  disgraceful  the  way  the  people  behaved 
sometimes  in  London.  One  would  have  thought  that 
they  had  never  heard  of  the  war. 

They  crossed  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  the  river. 
The  sky  was  lit  by  innumerable  shining  stars.  The 
cit}7  was  only  half  asleep  in  the  summer  night,  and  more 
beautiful  by  far  than  if  it  had  been  keeping  its  gay 
revel.  They  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  bridge  to 
look  down  the  river.  The  reflections  of  the  few  lights 
that  marked  the  lines  of  the  Quais  and  the  bridges 
trembled  in  the  flowing  water.  The  silhouettes  of  the 
trees  in  the  Tuileries  gardens,  the  Louvre,  Notre  Dame 
in  the  distance,  the  Institute,  and  other  buildings  on 
the  right  bank,  were  dark  against  the  spangled  velvet 
sky.  The  soft  melancholy  of  the  night  had  its  way  with 
the  dreaming  city,  unchallenged  by  the  glare  of  lights. 
Paris  had  never  been  seen  in  that  veil  of  beauty  before 
the  war,  nor  would  be  after;  but  the  Squire  did  not 
know  that. 

"  Paris  is  a  lovely  place  to  live  in,"  said  Joan ;  "  far 
more  beautiful  than  London. 

The  Squire  had  no  particular  opinion  of  London, 
and  what  opinion  he  had  was  not  concerned  with  its 
beauty.     But  he  did  not  like  to  hear  it  compared  un- 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  333 

favourably  with  Paris.  "  You'll  be  glad  enough  to  get 
out  of  it,  I  expect,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Inverell.  "We're  liking 
ourselves  here,  aren't  we,  Joan?  If  you  have  to  stick 
and  work  somewhere,  it  might  just  as  well  be  in  Paris 
as  anywhere." 

"Oh,  yes;  nothing  matters  as  long  as  the  war  lasts," 
said  the  Squire. 

He  had  a  vision  of  Inverell's  great  castle  in  Scotland, 
with  the  miles  of  country  that  went  with  it,  and  his  other 
fine  place  in  an  English  county,  both  of  them  lacking 
the  occupation  which  gave  them  their  life  and  meaning 
in  his  view.  The  war  had  played  havoc  with  all  the 
amenities  of  country  life,  which  were  to  him  the  only 
amenities  worth  having.  No,  it  wouldn't  matter  where 
one  lived  as  long  as  the  war  lasted,  if  there  was  work 
to  do. 

The  Inverells  occupied  a  sumptuous  flat  near  the 
Invalides.  The  Squire  opened  his  eyes  when  he  saw  its 
furnishings.  He  was  the  least  observant  of  men  in  such 
matters,  but  its  richness  and  beauty  imposed  themselves. 
And  surely  —  ! 

"  Yes,  I  had  a  few  pictures  and  things  sent  over," 
said  Inverell,  meeting  his  look  of  enquiry.  "  Thought 
we  might  as  well  have  the  benefit  of  some  of  them,  as 
we're  likely  to  be  here  for  some  time." 

The  Squire  turned  away  from  the  exquisite  Correggio 
which  was  the  glory  of  Inverell's  collection,  and  had  im- 
pressed itself  even  upon  his  memory.  "  I  hope  you'll 
get  it  back  to  England  safely,"  was  all  he  said. 

He  went  soon  to  his  room.  He  took  no  further 
notice  of  the  beautiful  things  with  which  it,  as  well  as 


334         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

the  rest  of  the  flat,  was  filled,  but  undressed  slowly,  and 
then  knelt  by  his  bedside,  a  sad,  tired,  almost  broken 
old  man,  but  one  who  still  had  his  work  to  do,  and  must 
find  strength  to  do  it. 

Joan  took  Nancy  to  her  room,  after  a  visit  to  the 
sleeping  babies,  and  they  talked  long  together. 

After  a  while  the  talk  came  round  to  their  father. 
"  He  looks  awfully  sad  and  old,  poor  darling ! "  said 
Joan. 

"  He  has  never  got  over  Dick's  death,"  said  Nancy, 
"  and  I  don't  suppose  he  ever  will." 

"  Oh,  poor  Dick !  It  does  seem  as  if  something  had 
gone  from  Kencote  that  alters  everything.  And  he 
was  such  a  dear.  Very  much  like  father,  he  was  get- 
ting, but  with  more  hold  over  himself.  Do  you  remem- 
ber how  sweet  he  was  to  us  when  we  were  little?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  We  weren't  of  much  account,  because 
we  were  girls ;  but  all  the  boys  were  proud  of  us,  all  the 
same,  especially  Dick.  I'd  give  anything  to  hear  him 
say :  '  Well,  Twankies,  how  are  things  going  with 
you?  '  when  he  came  home." 

"  Oh,  don't,  Nancy !  When  I  heard  he  was  killed 
all  sorts  of  little  things  kept  on  coming  back  to  me,  and 
running  through  my  head.  I  remember  once  when  we 
were  about  fifteen,  and  heard  that  he  had  come  home, 
and  we  went  and  knocked  at  his  door  as  he  was  finishing 
dressing  for  dinner;  and  we  went  in  and  he  said  just 
what  you  said  just  now  —  as  if  he  didn't  care  much; 
and  he  was  tying  his  tie  and  didn't  turn  round ;  but  I 
saw  his  dear  face  in  the  glass,  and  it  was  quite  pleased." 

Nancy  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  "  That's  the 
sort  of  thing  to  remember  —  to  keep  him  alive,"  she 
said.  "  I  miss  him  still.  There's  a  blank,  whenever  I 
think  of  Kencote." 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  335 

"  We  were  happy  there,  Nancy,  weren't  Ave?  We  hud 
to  behave  ourselves,  of  course;  but  that  didn't  do  us  any 
harm." 

"  I  sometimes  think  it's  easier  being  made  to  behave 
than  to  make  yourself.  My  darling  old  John  thinks 
that  everything  I  do  is  right,  so  I  have  to  be  extra  care- 
ful. Bless  him !  I  can  hardly  believe  I'm  going  to  see 
him  again  so  soon.  Yes,  Dick  was  growing  very  much 
like  father.  If  he  had  had  a  family  he  would  have  ruled 
them  with  a  rod  of  iron  —  and  all  for  their  good." 

"  He  didn't  rule  Virginia  with  a  rod  of  iron.  She 
adored  him.  I  know  she's  heartbroken,  though  she  pre- 
tends to  be  so  brave.     I  can  tell  it  from  her  letters." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  will  ever  get  over  it.  She'll  just 
live  her  life  on  the  outside,  but  it  will  be  quite  empty. 
Dick  was  everything  to  her,  and  now  he's  dead  there'll 
be  nothing  left.  He  did  rule  her,  you  know;  but  she 
liked  it.  That's  where  the  blank  is.  But  she's  most  aw- 
fully sweet  —  sweet  and  gentle  —  to  mother  and  every- 
body. She  has  had  more  to  do  with  keeping  father 
quiet  than  anybody." 

"  I  suppose  he  — " 

"  Oh,  well ;  you  remember  what  he  used  to  be  when 
anything  went  wrong.  He  is  wonderfully  changed 
about  little  things.  That's  what  makes  it  so  pathetic. 
You  can  imagine  what  it  all  means  to  him  —  Dick  and 
Humphrey  both  dead,  and  Walter  the  heir  now.  He 
would  have  thought  and  talked  about  nothing  else  — 
before." 

"  I  think  he  would  rather  that  Walter  should  succeed 
than  poor  Humphrey.  But  doesn't  he  talk  about  it  at 
all?" 

"No.  It's  all  the  war;  nothing  else.  Oh,  he's 
changed,  and  it  isn't  only  Dick's  death  that  has  changed 


336  THE  CLINT'   ffS,      \'D  OTHERS 

him.  We  all  wish  he  wouldn't  take  it  so  seriously, 
though  heaven  knows  it's  serious  enough.  Still,  he 
can't  do  anything.  That  is  what  one  comes  to  feel 
when  one  is  going  through  it  one's  self.  At  first  when 
John  was  taken,  after  I  knew  he  was  alive,  but  not  how 
badly  he  might  be  wounded.  I  felt  as  if  I  must  go  and 
break  through  and  get  at  him  somehow.  I  couldn't 
bear  just  to  go  on  living  comfortably  at  home,  doing 
nothing.  It  took  me  a  long  time  to  bring  myself  just 
to  w 

'*  Oh.  I  know,  darling.  It  was  worse  for  you  than 
for  me.  I  got  my  Ronald  back  almost  at  once,  and 
could  do  something  for  him,  though  it  was  dreadful  to 
think  of  him  maimed  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Well,  you 
haze  waited,  and  the  bad  time  is  over,  as  mine  is.  And 
now  you're  going  to  him.  Nancy,  darling,  it  must  be 
heavenly  for  yo  : 

They  both  cried  a  little  —  tears  of  happiness  and  of 
sympathy. 

•'  We  are  both  very  fortunate."  Nancy  said.  "  Think 
what  it  must  mean  for  Virginia,  and  all  the  others  whose 
husbands  have  been  killed.  It's  all  over  for  them,  and 
they  have  nothing  left  to  hope  for." 

"Poor  Virginia!  I  don't  think  I  could  have  gone 
on  if  it  had  happened  to  me  like  that  —  wiih  no  chil- 
drer . ' ' 

"  I  had  to  face  that  when  I  thought  that  John  might 
have  been  killed,  or  died  of  his  wounds.  I  could  just 
have  gone  on.  with  the  children :  and  afterwards  there 
might  have  been  something.  But  Virginia  —  !  And 
yet  she"^  -weet  and  kind  and  smiling.  You'd  hardly 
know  —  unless  you  did  kno^ 

"  And  darling  mother?  One  never  knows  how  much 
she  fee!-' 


THE   SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR 

B  It  has  made  her  seem  older.     Otherwise  there  i 
much  difference  in  her.      She  has  been  wonderful, 
did    love    Dick,    though    she    never    made    a    fuss    of 
him." 

"  Yes.  and  he  had  been  so  much  more  thoughtful  of 
her  of  late  years,  and  attentive.  Virginia  had  a  won- 
derful effect  upon  him." 

'•  I  think  Dick  was  a  very  fine  man.  All  the  people 
at  Kencote  loved  him,  though  some  of  them  were  a  little 
afraid  of  him.  He  was  rigid,  but  he  was  very  kind. 
He  would  have  been  just  in  hi-  place  as  Squire  of  Ken- 
cote —  I  should  think  one  of  the  best  that  there  has 
ever  been,  in  over  five  hundred  years." 

"  It  —  it  sort   of  ]  ou,  to  think  of  all  that 

wiped  out,  just  as  if  he  were  nobody  much  —  I  mean 
that  it  didn't  count  in  what  he  did.  He  was  just  a 
good  soldier  —  nothing  more,  though  he  meant  so  much 
more." 

a  I  suppose  that's  what  father  feels  in  his  heart  of 
hearts.     It's  the  way  he  looks  at  things." 

''Yes.      It  makes  it  worse  for  him.  because  it  i< 
really  like  a  wife  losing  her  husband,  or  a  mother  her 
son." 

;-  He  did  love  Dick." 

"  But  not  in  the  same  way.  I  suppose  he  loved 
Humphrey  too,  but  his  being  killed  wouldn't  have  made 
all  that  difference,  if  Dick  hadn't  been.  It's  what  Dick 
stood  for  —  Kencote.  and  the  line,  and  all  that  —  some- 
thing that  was  there  before  he  was  born,  and  will  go 
on  after  he  is  dead." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  much  about  that  if  Ronald 
had  been  killed  —  not  even  if  there  hadn't  been  my 
precious  little  son  to  succeed  him.*' 

"  No,  that's   just   it.     Women  don't.     It's   all  per- 


338         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

sonal  with  us.  But  men  can  put  an  idea  first,  and  leave 
themselves  out  of  it." 

"  Women  too,  Nancy.  It's  splendid  how  the  women 
are  prepared  to  give  up  those  they  love  for  France, 
here." 

"  Yes,  in  a  great  cause;  not  in  a  little  one  like  the 
continuance  of  a  family.  Father  has  been  rather  fine 
about  that,  too.  Kencote  has  been  his  gospel  up  to  now, 
but  fighting  for  England  comes  before  all  that.  He 
has  never  said  a  word  of  all  I  have  been  saying  —  about 
Dick,  I  mean.  It's  only  that  I  know  he  must  feel  it 
in  that  way.  He  won't  wear  a  sign  of  mourning,  or  let 
mother." 

"  It's  the  real  noblesse  oblige.  It  always  has  been 
that  with  families  like  ours.  I  suppose  it's  the  condi- 
tion. We  have  more  than  other  people,  but  we  mustn't 
count  it  when  the  danger  comes.  It's  ourselves  we  must 
give." 

"We  have,  haven't  we?  You  and  I  couldn't  have 
wanted  to  hold  our  men  back.  They  went,  and  they 
have  both  suffered,  and  we  have  suffered,  and  now  it's 
over,  for  us.  We  can't  do  any  more.  But  poor  father 
can't  see  it  in  that  light.  He  has  lost  enormously,  but 
he  must  still  go  on  tearing  himself  to  pieces  over  it. 
Oh,  I  do  hope  the  poor  old  darling  will  learn  to  take 
things  easier,  somehow,  when  we  get  to  Switzerland. 
He  will  be  among  the  men  who  have  gone  through  the 
realities.  I  don't  know  how  it  will  affect  him,  but  I 
can't  help  hoping  it  will  make  some  difference.  Joan, 
darling,  I  must  go  to  bed.  I'm  not  sleepy,  and  I  should 
like  to  talk  all  night.  But  we  shall  be  in  the  train  to- 
morrow night,  and  I  must  be  as  fresh  as  I  can  when  I 
meet  my  darling  old  John." 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  339 

III 

There  was  a  ceremony  to  be  witnessed  at  the  Invalides 
the  next  morning,  for  which  Inverell  had  obtained  places 
of  vantage  for  his  party.  Honours  and  decorations 
were  bestowed  by  the  President  of  the  Republic.  The 
band  of  the  Garde  Republicaine  played  in  the  great 
square  surrounded  by  the  marshalled  crowd  under  the 
bright  June  sky.  One  by  one  the  men  in  horizon  blue, 
and  some  in  khaki  —  for  English  soldiers  were  hon- 
oured as  well  as  French  —  came  forward,  were  saluted 
and  decorated,  and  then  retired.     It  was  soon  over. 

The  Squire  was  struck  by  the  simplicity  of  the  pro- 
ceedings, and  forbore  to  remark  upon  the  fraternal  kiss 
with  which  each  recipient  was  greeted.  In  pre-war  days 
he  would  probably  have  attributed  this  custom  to  a  lack 
of  manly  vigour  on  the  part  of  the  whole  French  na- 
tion, and  would  certainly  have  commented  upon  the 
President's  tall  hat,  and  the  comparative  absence  of 
military  display,  to  which  as  a  one-time  officer  of  the 
Household  Troops  he  had  been  accustomed  in  similar 
ceremonies  in  England.  Now  he  saw  more  deeply. 
"  Every  man  in  the  nation  who  is  fit  for  it  is  a  fighting 
soldier,"  he  said.  "  And  we've  seen  how  they  can  fight. 
Why  can't  we  call  up  all  our  men,  as  they  do,  and  have 
done  with  it  ?  " 

Conscription  was  still  being  debated  by  Englishmen. 
"  I  don't  know  that  the  fellows  who  haven't  already  gone 
of  their  own  accord  will  be  worth  much  when  you  get 
'em,"  said  Inverell. 

"  Some  won't,"  said  the  Squire ;  "  and  when  they  find 
it  out  they  can  put  them  to  other  jobs.  Everybody 
has  got  to  do  something,  or  we  shall  go  under." 

The  Investiture  was  early  in  the  morning,  and  they 


340  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

motored  out  to  Versailles  afterwards  —  Joan  and  Nancy 
and  the  Squire.  Joan  thought  that  the  drive  through 
the  Bois  and  along  the  river  would  please  him,  as  it 
pleased  Nancy.  But  though  he  had  to  some  extent 
overcome  his  prejudice  against  motoring  as  a  means 
of  progression,  which  had  persisted  for  years  after 
others  like  himself  had  accepted  it  as  a  convenience,  he 
was  not  to  be  pleased  by  a  mere  outing.  Petrol  re- 
strictions had  not  yet  come  into  force,  but  he  was  ahead 
of  his  time  —  which  he  had  never  been  before  in  his  life 
—  in  scenting  waste  of  money  and  material  in  every- 
thing that  was  not  devoted  to  the  great  object  of  push- 
ing on  with  the  war. 

Joan  and  Nancy  exerted  themselves  to  please  him, 
and  he  made  his  effort  to  respond.  In  the  old  days  he 
would  have  expressed  himself  with  the  utmost  freedom 
over  anything  that  did  not  suit  him.  Even  after  their 
marriages  he  had  kept  his  license  of  criticism.  But  that 
loud  confident  domination  had  disappeared;  he  was  be- 
wildered and  troubled,  with  a  growing  sense  of  all  the 
world  awry,  and  of  his  own  impotence  to  set  it  right. 

He  was  a  damp  upon  his  daughters'  enjoyment,  but 
they  felt  the  change  in  him  to  be  so  significant  that  they 
could  only  show  themselves  soft  and  tender  with  him. 

On  either  side  of  the  broad  road  leading  into  Ver- 
sailles there  were  lines  of  grey-painted  army  motor 
vehicles,  standing  side  by  side,  and  extending  for  an  un- 
broken mile  at  least.  It  was  just  one  example  of  the 
incredible  mass  of  material  needed  to  feed  the  machine 
of  war,  and  the  Squire  was  struck  by  it.  "  I  suppose 
you'd  see  something  like  this  everywhere  you  went  in 
France,"  he  said.  "  Ah,  they  may  be  light-headed  and 
frivolous  and  all  that,  but  they've  had  those  murderous 
brutes  over-running  their  country,  and  they'll  work  and 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  341 

fight  till  they  get  rid  of  them.     This  brings  it  home  to 
you  how  near  they  still  are." 

"And  they  have  been  so  much  nearer,"  said  Joan. 
"  I've  met  people  who  heard  the  guns  from  Paris." 

"  Do  us  good  to  have  heard  the  guns  from  London," 
he  said.  "  Nobody  would  have  thought,  before  the  war, 
that  the  French  would  take  things  more  seriously  than 
the  English.  But  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  there's  more 
tomfoolery  going  on  now  in  London  than  there  is  in 
Paris." 

Perhaps  the  sight  of  so  many  motor  vehicles  used  for 
war  purposes  had  reconciled  him  to  sitting  in  one  that 
was  being  used  for  pleasure;  or  his  sudden  view  of 
Paris  as  threatened  and  sobered  had  cleared  the  air  for 
him.  He  was  less  moody  and  disturbed  on  the  drive 
back,  and  talked  affectionately  to  Joan,  of  her  husband 
and  children. 

"  Those  little  innocent  souls !  "  he  said.  "  God  grant 
that  it  won't  make  a  mark  on  their  lives.  They're 
young  enough  to  be  able  to  forget  all  the  horrors,  when 
we  get  back  to  our  proper  life." 

"  Yes,  they  have  been  sheltered,"  Joan  said.  "  But 
it's  dreadful  to  think  of  the  little  children  who  have 
known  all  the  misery  of  it." 

"  The  women  and  children,"  he  said.  "  It's  worst 
for  them.  Men  like  fighting  —  those  that  are  worth 
being  called  men ;  there's  no  getting  over  that.  But 
the  women  and  the  little  children !  Ah !  when  }7ou  can't 
do  anything  to  protect  them  —  !  " 

He  relapsed  into  his  frowning,  sombre  mood.  Joan 
felt  an  immense  lift  of  tenderness  and  pity  towards 
him  —  and  of  understanding.  She  had  known  him  all 
through  her  girlhood  dominant  over  his  womenkind,  ex- 
pecting them  to  submit  themselves  unquestioningly  to 


342  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

his  dispositions,  and  to  content  themselves  within  the 
limited  horizons  which  he  thought  good  for  them.  He 
had  fussed  and  fumed  and  asserted  outraged  authority 
whenever  anything  had  happened  that  had  injured  his 
sense  of  what  was  owing  to  himself.  He  had  seen  him- 
self as  the  little  God  of  his  home,  and  had  had  no  doubt, 
in  subjecting  those  dependent  on  him  to  his  will,  that 
it  was  right  and  the  best  thing  for  them  that  they  should 
live  in  that  subjection.  But  this  consciousness  of  right 
had  depended  upon  his  power  to  afford  them  the  pro- 
tection that  was  due  to  them  from  him,  and  he  had 
learnt  by  the  bitter  experience  of  the  war  —  the  losses 
suffered  by  those  dear  to  him,  and  still  more  the  shame 
and  agony  of  thousands  who  had  lain  at  the  mercy  of 
the  swinish  foe  —  that  the  love  of  the  strongest  and 
bravest  of  men  was  impotent  to  shield  the  weak. 

But  a  man  who,  in  the  Squire's  view,  was  "  worthy 
of  the  name  of  man,"  could  at  least  fight  to  lift  the 
menace  of  such  horrors.  Yes,  if  he  was  of  an  age  to 
express  his  manhood  in  that  way.  For  himself,  his 
"  fighting  days  were  over."  He  must  leave  that  to 
others,  and  take  his  own  place  with  the  women  and 
children  for  whom  strong  men  went  out  to  do  battle. 
Joan  had  often  heard  him  use  the  easy  phrase  in  the 
early  days,  when  the  adventure  of  going  out  to  fight 
was  uppermost,  and  the  shame  and  misery  of  war  had 
not  yet  bitten  into  the  spirit.  He  used  it  no  longer, 
but  she  saw  in  a  flash  of  insight  that  it  was  because  the 
bitter  actualities  had  seized  him,  not  because  he  felt 
less  poignantly  the  impotence  of  his  own  age.  It  did 
not  matter  now  that  one  old  man  could  not  do  the  work 
of  a  young  one.  What  did  matter  was  that  the  cloud 
of  horror  was  not  yet  lifted,  and  the  weak  and  helpless 
lay  under  it." 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  348 

"  I  think  we  English  women  are  more  fortunate  than 
others,  father  dear,"  Joan  said,  gently.  "  We  give  our 
men  to  fight,  and  it's  dreadful  for  us  if  we  lose  them; 
but  they  know  that  we  are  safe.  Those  who  can't 
fight  any  longer  are  looking  after  us,  and  they  can 
think  of  us  in  our  homes,  which  they  can  come  back  to 
when  it's  all  over." 

He  smiled  at  her  kindly,  with  an  obvious  effort  to 
throw  off  his  dark  thoughts.  "  Keep  the  home  fires 
burning,  eh?  "  he  said.  "  That's  what  the  troops  sing, 
and  it's  a  good  song  for  them  to  sing.  Yes,  it's  for  us 
who  can't  come  out  here  and  take  our  part  to  do  that. 
I  wish  I  thought  we  all  saw  it  enough,  as  a  nation." 

He  looked  about  him  after  that,  praised  the  Bois, 
and  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  allowed  himself  a  pro- 
phetic vision  of  victorious  troops  marching  under  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe  down  the  long  hill.  "  It  is  a  fine 
city,"  he  said.      "  Thank  God  they  were  kept  out  of  it." 

Inverell  met  them  for  lunch  at  the  "  Ambassadeurs." 
They  lunched  outside,  in  the  happy  sparkling  atmos- 
phere of  Paris  in  June,  just  as  they  might  have  done 
in  normal  times.  There  was  the  same  gay  chatter  of 
the  rich,  apparently  careless,  well-dressed  crowd,  the 
same  under-current  of  concentration  over  the  business 
of  serving  the  most  expensive  wines  and  viands,  the 
same  profusion  of  supply  and  demand.  Food  restric- 
tions had  not  yet  begun  to  affect  life  either  in  France 
or  England,  but  it  seemed  a  shocking  thing  to  the 
Squire  that  eating  and  drinking  to  this  extravagant 
extent  should  occupy  the  attention  of  anybody  at  such 
a  time. 

He  did  his  best  to  keep  his  strong  disapproval  to  him- 
self, but  he  was  not  good  at  that  at  any  time,  and  Joan 
regretted  that   she  had   arranged   this   luncheon   at   a 


344         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

restaurant,  which  she  had  thought  would  amuse  him  and 
Nancy. 

He  would  not  have  objected  to  exactly  the  same  meal 
served  in  her  artartment.  He  would  have  eaten  and 
drunk  whatever  had  been  set  before  him,  and  enjoyed  it, 
in  spite  of  his  always  strongly  expressed  preference  for 
English  food  and  English  cooking.  The  wine  he  might 
have  noticed  and  commented  upon,  because  he  knew 
about  wines,  and  because  you  pleased  your  host  by  ap- 
proving of  his  taste  in  them.  But  this  ordering  of  your 
meal  in  public,  in  con-ailtation  with  your  guests,  with 
a  mo'itre  dlwtel  standing  at  your  elbow  and  booking 
Your  orders,  not  without  advice  of  his  own,  struck  him 
as  very  like  taking  part  in  a  mistress's  consultation 
with  her  servants  —  almost  an  indecency.  The  restaur- 
ant habit  was,  in  fact,  entirely  unknown  to  him.  In  his 
expansive  youth  it  had  been  unheard  of.  The  nearest 
he  had  ever  come  to  it  had  been  in  giving  luncheons  or 
dinners  at  one  of  his  clubs  —  meals  as  elaborate  as  this 
and  as  carefullv  arranged,  but  arranged  beforehand, 
so  that  the  guests  should  get  the  right  flavour  of  hos- 
pitality, and  accept  the  good  things  set  before  them  as 
thev  would  have  accepted  them  at  his  own  table. 
Neither  Joan  nor  Nancy  divined  that  half  his  displeas- 
ure, which  he  could  not  hide,  was  at  being  obliged,  under 
Inverell's  bospitable  pressure,  to  express  his  preference 
for  this  or  that  luxury,  with  the  price  of  it  staring  him 
in  the  face  on  the  menu,  when  indulgence  in  any  sort 
of  luxury  was  so  far  from  his  mood. 

"The  poor  old  boy  is  very  difficult  to  please,"  said 
Inverell  to  his  wife  afterwards.  "  He  seems  to  have 
the  impression  that  we're  spending  our  money  on  riotous 
living,  when  we're  really  saving  it  hand  over  fist." 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  345 

That  was,  in  fact,  the  impression  that  the  Squire 
carried  away  from  Ins  visit  to  his  daughter  and  son-in- 
law,  though  he  would  have  been  surprised  to  learn  that 
he  had  made  it  so  apparent. 

"  Poor  old  darling,  I'm  so  frightfully  sorry  for  him," 
Joan  said.  "  He  can't  have  very  much  longer  to  live, 
and  the  end  of  his  life  must  be  very  sad  in  any  case. 
If  only  he  could  make  the  best  of  it  for  himself ! " 

"  He'd  be  making  the  best  of  it  for  everybody  else," 
added  Inverell.  "  Still,  I  suppose  that  sort  of  spirit  is 
wanted,  or  we  shouldn't  be  able  to  carry  it  through  to 
the  end.  I  admire  him  for  it,  you  know.  Even  if  he's 
rather  a  nuisance  to  other  people,  he  doesn't  spare  him- 
self." 

IV 

Nancy  slept  fitfully  during  the  night  in  the  train,  but 
except  for  her  wish  to  look  her  best  when  she  met  her 
husband,  she  did  not  want  to  sleep.  She  was  too  happy, 
hugging  her  expectations. 

Nearly  two  long  years  it  was  since  he  had  said  good- 
bye to  her  in  those  first  high-hearted  days  of  the  war, 
which  had  so  soon  been  followed  by  days  of  sickening 
alarm,  of  anxiety,  and  then  of  troubled  and  seemingly 
endless  monotony.  In  the  censored  letters  she  had  re- 
ceived from  him  he  had  made  light  of  his  wounds,  which 
had  been  in  the  arm  and  shoulder,  and  according  to  his 
statements  long  since  healed.  He  had  ceased  for  some 
time  to  refer  to  them  at  all.  She  had  felt  very  doubt- 
ful on  this  account  of  his  being  allowed  out  of  Germany 
with  the  others,  who  had  received  such  damage  that  they 
might  as  well  be  let  go  as  be  kept.  When  the  glad  news 
had  come  that  he  had  been  finally  passed  for  intern- 


346         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

ment  in  Switzerland  the  first  irradiation  of  joy  had  been 
dimmed  by  the  fear  that  he  must  be  worse  than  he  had 
admitted  to  her. 

But  she  had  heard  from  him  since.  His  arm  —  for- 
tunately it  was  his  left  arm — was  quite  stiff  at  the 
elbow,  and  his  shoulder  joint  was  not  of  much  use  to 
him.  He  was,  in  fact,  more  permanently  crippled  than 
many  of  those  who  had  been  let  out,  though  in  other 
respects  he  was  well.  He  had  kept  the  extent  of  his 
disablement  from  her,  but  assured  her  that  he  had  be- 
come used  to  it,  and  it  scarcely  worried  him  at  all.  He 
would  still  be  able  to  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  if 
she  happened  to  be  on  that  side  of  him,  although  he 
would  always  have  to  use  his  right  hand  if  he  wanted  to 
brush  a  fly  off  his  nose.  He  could  not  lift  the  other 
more  than  a  few  inches.  But  what  did  that  or  anything 
else  matter,  since  he  was  going  to  see  her  so  soon  again? 
She  wasn't  to  worry  about  it  at  all. 

Poor  dear  old  John,  making  light  of  everything  that 
might  distress  her  for  his  sake  —  it  was  what  he  had  al- 
ways been  to  her  —  strong  and  cheerful  and  loving,  but 
dependent  on  her  too,  and  drawing  much  of  the  strength 
that  she  rested  in  from  her  trust  in  him.  He  was  a  good 
many  j'ears  older  than  she,  but  she  had  for  him  that 
maternal  feeling  which  is  so  beautiful  a  factor  in  mar- 
ried love.  He  was  a  man  of  large  property,  who  ad- 
mirably fulfilled  his  duties  as  a  landowner,  with  all  their 
responsibilities  of  leadership.  He  was  the  acknowl- 
edged and  respected  head  of  his  house.  The  men  of 
his  regiment  had  looked  up  to  him.  He  was  a  man  of 
action,  courage  and  decision,  expert  in  the  pursuits 
which  make  demand  on  such  qualities,  and  physically 
fitted  for  them.  A  man  among  men,  but  to  her  a  great, 
simple,  loving  child,  who  greatly  revered  her  higher  in- 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  347 

tellectual  equipment,  and  leant  upon  her  to  supplemenl 
qualities  which  she  loved  and  admired  in  him  in  return. 

She  had  wept  tears  afresh  when  she  had  first  learnt 
of  the  extent  of  his  disablement.  The  pain  was  over 
for  him;  he  had  adapted  himself,  he  had  assured  her 
earnestly,  to  the  alteration  in  his  state,  which  left  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  his  physical  powers  intact.  He 
was  more  fortunate  than  others,  with  limbs  lopped, 
sight  or  speech  or  hearing  ruined,  bodily  organs  af- 
fected in  such  a  way  as  to  alter  the  whole  course  of  life 
for  them,  and  reduce  them  in  the  hey-day  of  their 
strength  and  vigour  to  permanent  invalidism.  But  he 
was  hers,  and  she  felt  acutely  for  his  sake  the  disabilities 
of  which  he  had  made  so  light.  He  would  be  able  to 
hunt,  he  said;  the  stiff  arm  had  lost  little  in  muscular 
power.  But  hunting  had  been  only  a  secondary  amuse- 
ment with  him,  especially  since  he  had  grown  older  and 
heavier.  He  was  a  very  fine  shot,  and  his  preserves 
were  famous.  He  had  said  nothing  about  shooting, 
which  was  significant  enough  in  itself:  and  if  he  could 
scarcely  move  his  arm  from  the  shoulder  he  would  not 
be  able  to  shoot,  or  else  he  must  learn  to  do  so  with  a 
light  single-handed  gun. 

And  she  had  always  loved  to  hear  him  strumming  on 
a  piano,  for  which  he  had  small  aptitude  but  a  great 
liking.  He  loved  music,  and  good  music  too,  with  child- 
like uncritical  enthusiasm.  "  I  say,  old  girl,  isn't  this 
jolly?  I  haven't  got  it  quite  right  yet,  but  if  I  mug  at 
it  a  bit  more  I  believe  it  will  sound  something  like  it." 
She  would  find  him  sitting  at  the  grand  piano  in  the 
great  drawing-room  —  for  he  preferred  that  piano  to 
any  other  in  the  house  —  laboriously  spelling  through 
a  page  of  the  Meistersinger,  or  a  slow  movement  from 
a  Beethoven  Sonata  —  a  large,  tweed-suited,  incongru- 


348  THE  (LINTON'S,  AND  OTHERS 

ous  figure  in  such  surroundings  of  state,  but  a  much  to 
be  loved  and  cherished  one,  for  the  clean  simplicity  of 
his  nature.  lie  would  not  be  able  to  play  the  piano 
any  more,  which  some  wives,  considering  the  nature  of 
his  performances,  might  have  been  glad  of  —  but  not 
Nancy. 

Small  things  these!  —  since  he  was  alive  where  so 
many  were  dead,  and  well,  and  she  was  going  to  him. 
But  it  was  their  part  —  appreciable  enough  —  of  the 
remorseless  payment  now  being  exacted  from  the  blood 
and  brains  and  sinew  of  the  civilized  world.  What  that 
payment  was  in  its  appalling  sum  no  human  brain  could 
grasp;  but  it  could  be  gauged  in  some  quite  inadequate 
degree  from  the  personal  incidence  of  it. 

There  was  Ronald  Inverell,  a  cripple  for  life  —  mak- 
ing the  cheerful  best  of  it,  adapting  himself  with  youth- 
ful zest  and  spirit  to  the  big  things  that  were  left  him 
to  do  and  to  enjoy,  but,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  a 
cripple  for  life.  There  was  the  only  son  of  their  old 
Rector,  at  home  in  Yorkshire,  a  young  painter  of  ex- 
traordinary gifts,  whose  career  his  friends  had  been 
watching  with  the  keenest  interest  —  blind.  There  was 
one  of  their  tenant  farmers,  back  from  the  war,  tread- 
ing his  fields  again,  going  to  market,  making  money, 
strong  and  active  and  still  young,  but  with  his  mouth 
twisted  and  deformed,  so  that  he  could  speak  with  dif- 
ficulty and  must  eat  alone.  His  child,  who  had  adored 
him.  had  cried  out  in  terror  of  his  greeting,  when  hi'  had 
come  home  —  cured. 

These  wire  the  incidents  of  the  wide-spread  agony 
that  had  come  home  to  Nancy  personally  —  with  the 
perhaps  merciful  deaths  which  had  brought  sorrow  to 
her  and  to  those  dear  to  her.  They  opened  for  her 
windows  to  a  world  groaning  in  pain  and   trouble,  a 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  949 

world  darkened  and  stricken.     It  frightened  her  when 

she  thought  of  it,  and  made  her  ask  herself  if  she  had 
the  right  to  give  herself  up  to  the  unrestrained  joy  of 
what  was  coming  back  to  her,  since  to  thousands  there 
could  be  no  such  relief  of  their  pain.  She  knew  that  her 
father,  with  an  imagination  never  hitherto  greatly 
stirred  by  events  that  touched  him  not  personally,  was 
bowed  down  by  the  weight  of  it ;  that  the  continual 
sight  of  the  men  who  were  being  nursed  back  to  what- 
ever of  health  or  vigour  was  left  to  them,  in  the  house 
in  which  he  had  lived  all  the  years  of  his  richly  endowed 
life,  was  weighing  on  his  brain,  like  a  long  evil  dream 
from  which  he  could  not  shake  himself  awake;  that  he 
did  grasp,  more  than  most,  the  limitless  ruin  of  which 
the  examples  that  came  under  his  own  eyes  were  so  small 
and  3'et  so  terrible  a  part.  It  was  with  him  night  and 
day,  and  blinded  his  eyes  to  what  was  left  of  the  life  that 
he  had  always  known. 

And  yet  there  was  so  much  of  that  life  still  left,  in 
spite  of  the  hugeness  of  the  catastrophe,  which  had 
drawn  in  more  of  the  rank  and  file  of  humanity  than  had 
ever  before  been  entangled  in  the  net  of  war.  It  could 
not  be  wrong  for  her,  who  had  borne  her  share  of  the 
suffering,  to  rejoice  in  the  restoration  that  had  been 
made  to  her.  It  would  not  make  her  less  tender  towards 
those  whose  loss  and  suffering  had  been,  or  would  be, 
greater  than  hers.  She  and  her  husband  had  met  the 
claims  that  had  been  made  upon  them.  So  had  her 
father.  If  only  he  could  be  content  with  what  he  had 
done,  and  what  he  still  might  do  as  part  of  the  great 
machine,  and  throw  off  from  his  already  heavily-bowed 
shoulders  burdens  which  no  anxious  effort  of  his  could 
lighten ! 

Perhaps  his  troubled  mind  would  be  eased  when  he  had 


350         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

been  for  a  time  out  of  his  groove,  and  among  those 
whose  heavy  payment  had  already  been  made  —  those 
who  must  now  be  rejoicing  in  their  new-found  liberty, 
and  would  want  to  forget  the  horrors.  For  herself 
and  her  dear  man  she  knew  that  some  degree  of  forget- 
fulness  must  be  encouraged.  The  time  for  solace  and 
happiness  had  come  for  them,  as  it  had  come  months  ago 
for  Joan  and  Ronald,  if  not  yet  for  countless  others. 
She  was  quietly  happy  when  she  fell  asleep  as  the  sun 
was  rising  over  the  eastern  woods  and  fields  of  France. 
She  had  seemed  scarcely  to  have  fallen  asleep  when 
they  were  aroused  for  passport  examination  at  the 
frontier  station.  Thanks  to  the  diplomatic  recom- 
mendations obtained  for  them  by  Inverell,  they  were  the 
first  to  be  served.  It  would  have  been  easy  enough  for 
the  Squire  to  have  gained  some  such  facilities  for  their 
journey  from  London  to  Paris,  but  he  had  refused  to 
bestir  himself.  It  was  quite  right  to  discourage  travel- 
ling among  those  whose  journeys  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  carrying  on  of  the  war.  Why  should  an  old  man 
and  a  young  woman  whose  object  was  a  personal  one 
have  things  made  easier  for  them  than  others?  This 
new-found  modesty  showed  a  surprising  change  in  him. 
Before  the  war  he  would  have  considered  any  such  prior- 
ity that  could  have  been  arranged  for  him  only  his  due. 
He  was  of  the  ruling  classes,  which  naturally  take  pre- 
cedence of  the  undistinguished  crowd.  But  long  waits 
at  the  British  and  French  ports,  in  company  with  the 
undistinguished  crowd,  while  many  not  so  self-obliterat- 
ing as  himself,  and  certainly  not  more  deserving  of  con- 
sideration, had  preceded  him,  had  softened  his  objection 
to  taking  personal  advantage.  Inverell  had  obtained 
ambassadorial  courtesies  for  him  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  he  had  not  refused  them. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  351 

So  he  and  Nancy  were  not  obliged  to  spend  an  hour 
or  more  wedged  upright  in  a  cosmopolitan  mass  before 
their  turn  came,  but  could  take  the  limited  freedom  of 
the  station  platform  until  the  train  was  ready  to  go 
on  again. 

Nancy  thought  that  her  father  was  more  his  old  self, 
as  they  paced  up  and  down  together,  in  the  freshness 
of  the  very  early  summer  morning.  Perhaps  the  def- 
erence with  which  they  had  just  now  been  treated  — 
ushered  straight  into  the  booth  where  the  French  and 
Swiss  authorities  sat  to  examine  into  credentials,  while 
the  rest  of  their  fellow  passengers  waited  patiently  for 
admission  one  by  one  outside, —  had  restored  something 
of  his  old  relief  in  his  own  importance.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  this  formal  and  not  to  be  ignored  entry  into  a 
country  spared  the  stark  horrors,  though  not  the  dis- 
turbances, of  European  war,  that  had  heightened  his 
spirits.  He  was  certainly  more  cheerful  than  he  had 
been  in  the  earlier  stages  of  their  journey,  and  even 
inclined  to  be  a  little  interested  in  his  novel  surround- 
ings. 

As  for  Nancy  herself,  the  air  she  breathed,  the  ground 
she  trod,  spoke  of  freedom  and  of  renewed  happiness. 
Her  husband's  imprisonment  in  an  enemy  country  had 
weighed  daily  and  hourly  on  her  spirits,  almost  as  if  she 
had  been  in  prison  herself.  Switzerland,  the  little  land 
that  hugged  its  neutrality,  though  completely  sur- 
rounded by  great  nations  at  war,  was  like  a  refuge, 
protected  by  more  than  its  ring  of  iron.  The  summer 
breeze  that  blew  from  its  mountains  was  the  breath  of 
safety  and  freedom.  A  new  sense  of  security  mixed 
itself  with  the  happiness  that  she  had  felt  ever  since  she 
had  known  that  she  could  go  to  her  husband.  The  sun 
that  was  shining  down  on  them  both  would  not  set  again 


352  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

until  they  had  come  together,  with  the  long  parting  at 
an  end,  and  nothing  to  separate  them  again. 

"  With  all  this  fuss  made  over  going  from  one  coun- 
try to  another,"  said  the  Squire,  "  it's  a  wonder  people 
aren't  content  to  stay  in  their  own  —  at  least  when  it's 
a  country  like  England." 

"  There  was  no  fuss  before  the  war,"  said  Nancy. 
"  John  and  I  went  through  France  and  Switzerland 
when  wre  went  to  Italy,  and  didn't  know  when  we  went 
out  of  one  country  into  another:" 

"  People  used  to  have  passports  when  I  was  a  young 
fellow,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I  used  to  hear  them  talking 
about  them,  and  always  asked  why  they  couldn't  be  con- 
tent to  stay  where  they  were." 

"  I  don't  think  they  had  to  have  them,  did  they  ?  It 
was  just  for  in  case  they  might  find  themselves  in  some 
difficulty.  And  they  wouldn't  have  been  examined  like 
this  at  the  frontiers." 

"  Ah,  I  dare  say,"  said  the  Squire,  who  did  not  like 
to  show  himself  ignorant  upon  any  subject,  even  upon 
that  of  foreign  travel.  "  I  suppose  there  has  never 
been  a  time  within  living  memory  when  people  have  had 
to  keep  themselves  so  much  to  their  own  countries. 
Good  thing  too,  in  my  opinion.  If  we  had  kept  the 
foreigners  out  of  England  more,  we  might  not  have 
had  all  this  trouble." 

It  was  a  return  to  his  old  habits  of  mind  and  of 
speech.  Foreigners  were  foreigners,  whether  they  were 
French  or  Germans  or  Russians,  and  England  was  Kng- 
land,  with  old-established  well-proved  ways  which  for- 
eignera  could  only  contaminate.  Tin  point  of  view 
:  good  deal  less  enlightened  than  that  to  which  he 
had  been  brought,  of  certain  foreigners  impelled  by  the 
same  love  of  justice  ami  liberty  as  the  English,  fight- 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  353 

ing  as  bravely  as  they  against  certain  other  foreigners 
antagonistic  to  those  ideals.  But  general  enlightenment 
was  less  to  be  desired  in  the  Squire  than  the  clearing  up 
of  the  trouble  that  affected  him  personally.  It  gave 
Nancy  an  odd  sense  of  pleasure  to  find  his  old  prejudice 
peeping  out.  "  We  shall  be  among  English  people  al- 
most entirely  here,"  she  said.  "  And  it  will  all  be  over 
some  day,  and  we  shall  live  in  peace  again  in  our  dear 
old  England." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  that  day,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  If  we  all  do  our  duty  as  the  men  who  we  are  going  to 
see  have  done  theirs,  I'm  sure  I  shall." 

They  had  another  long  wait  at  another  station,  where 
luggage  was  examined  by  the  Customs.  The  credentials 
held  by  our  travellers  were  such  as  to  spare  them  trouble 
even  over  this,  and  the  Squire  rather  ungratefully  re- 
marked that  all  the  Customs  regulations  seemed  to  be 
a  pack  of  nonsense. 

Then  they  travelled  on,  with  frequent  stoppages,  for 
an  hour  or  two  longer,  and  the  Squire  showed  interest, 
as  an  agriculturist,  in  what  he  could  see  from  the  win- 
dows of  their  carriage,  but  forbore  to  disturb  Nancy, 
who  slept  peacefully  in  her  corner,  with  a  smile  on  her 
lips. 


There  were  about  three  hundred  interned  prisoners 
of  war  —  officers  and  men  —  in  the  Alpine  resort  to 
which  our  travellers  came  that  afternoon.  Some  of  the 
big  hotels  which  had  stood  empty  since  the  outbreak 
of  the  war,  were  occupied  by  the  men,  and  the  officers 
were  scattered  over  other  hotels  and  pensions.  Some 
of  them,  in  preparation  for  wives  and  families  from  Eng- 
land, had   rented  chalets   or  flats.     John   Spence   had 


354.         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

taken  a  chalet,  where  he  and  Nancy  could  live  as  ntar 
an  approach  to  their  home  life  as  was  possible  under 
the  circumstances.  The  chalet  was  of  a  fair  size,  and 
was  comfortably  furnished.  It  had  a  glorious  view  of 
snow-capped  mountains  over  a  wide,  grassy  valley,  now 
bright  with  summer  flowers. 

The  Squire,  dressing  for  dinner,  allowed  himself  to 
linger  at  his  open  window,  and  felt  something  of  that 
fresh  pleasure  in  a  new  and  beautiful  scene  from  which 
his  prejudice  against  departing  from  the  dear  familiar 
had  hitherto  debarred  him.  Scenery,  considered  as 
scenery,  without  reference  to  its  adaptability  to  pastoral 
or  agricultural  pursuits,  or  to  some  kind  of  sport,  had 
never  meant  much  to  him  —  not  even  English  scenery, 
which,  not  having  known  any  other,  he  would  stoutly  have 
maintained  to  be  the  best  in  the  world. 

But  the  scenery  of  Switzerland  engages  the  simple 
mind.  It  has  the  right  mixture  of  grandeur  and  pret- 
tiness ;  it  is  brightly  coloured  and  definitely  presented. 
It  is  also  well  advertised,  and  the  example  before  him 
made  something  of  the  same  impression  upon  the  Squire 
as  the  first  sight  of  a  masterpiece  of  painting,  known 
hitherto  only  through  engravings  or  photographs, 
might  make  upon  a  more  ductile  mind.  He  recognized 
it  with  approval,  as  something  that  people  who  cared 
for  that  sort  of  thing  might  be  rather  pleased  to  have 
the  opportunity  of  seeing,  and  felt  himself  a  travelled 
man  as  he  contrasted  it,  not  altogether  to  its  detriment, 
with  the  scenes  upon  which  his  eyes  had  been  accustomed 
to  rest  during  the  more  than  seventy  years  of  his  life. 

There  was,  indeed,  a  heightened  meaning  just  now, 
in  its  facile  beauty,  which  he  was  as  capable  of  reading 
as  another.  That  wide,  flower-decked  valley,  scattered 
over  with  the  little  chalets  that  spoke  of  its  peaceful 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  355 

occupation,  bounded  by  mountains  beyond  which  were 
other  stretches  of  rich  grass-lands,  given  over  to  those 
pursuits  which  he  judged  to  be  among  the  most  natural 
for  mankind  in  its  normal  state  —  what  must  it  moan, 
with  the  free  winds  of  heaven  blowing  over  it,  to  the 
men  who  had  lived  for  many  months,  sick  and  wounded, 
in  a  German  prison  camp?  To  the  Squire  himself,  op- 
pressed more  than  he  knew  by  the  monotony  that  he  had 
imposed  upon  his  own  life  in  England,  there  was  a  grate- 
ful sense  of  having  come  out  into  a  more  spacious,  more 
hopeful  atmosphere.  To  these  men,  released  from  con- 
finement in  many  cases  hard  and  cruel,  in  all  cases  pain- 
ful, it  must  be  like  heaven.  It  would  be  enough  for  the 
most  active,  surely,  to  sit  still  and  watch  the  cloud 
shadows  pass  over  the  grass  and  flowers,  and  the  colours 
of  the  mountains  change,  as  the  setting  sun  touched  them 
now  here,  now  there ;  to  know  that  they  would  wake  on 
the  morrow  to  the  same  fair  scene,  and  that  the  memory 
of  their  brutal  oppressors,  and  the  pains  and  humilia- 
tions they  had  undergone,  would  gradually  fade  from 
their  minds. 

John  Spence  had  engaged  a  couple  of  Swiss  maids, 
who,  with  a  soldier  servant  from  among  the  interned, 
would  suffice  for  their  modest  establishment.  There 
was  a  little  dinner  party  that  night,  of  themselves  and 
three  of  the  men  who  had  come  out  of  Germany.  They 
were  a  lively,  talkative  party,  even  the  Squire  yielding 
himself  to  the  general  atmosphere  of  emancipation  and 
happiness.  Nancy,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  facing 
her  husband,  who,  except  for  his  khaki  and  his  nearly 
useless  arm,  looked  much  the  same  as  he  had  looked 
facing  her  at  home,  felt  a  sense  of  unreality  continually 
stealing  over  her.  The  little  Swiss  room,  clean  and 
bright,  with  its  unpainted  wooden  walls,  its  window  open 


356         THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

to  the  evening  breeze,  and  the  sinking  sun  which  ctyed 
the  mountains  in  soft  hues  of  rose  and  daffodil  and 
misty  blue;  the  meadow  flowers  on  the  table :  the  Swiss 
maid  serving  unaccustomed  food  —  it  was  surely  the 
opening  scene  of  some  pleasant  holiday,  and  the  guests 
who  were  sitting  there  happy  and  at  ease  were  the  par- 
ticipants in  it.  with  herself  and  her  husband.  There 
was  no  shadow  over  their  pleasure  apparent  from  the 
past,  and  none  at  present  from  the  future. 

Well,  it  would  be  that  as  long  as  they  cared  to  make 
it  so.  and  left  out  of  account  what  was  going  on  outside 
this  pool  of  calm  in  the  midst  of  the  whirlpool  of  war: 
also  that  the  holiday  might  be  prolonged  far  beyond 
the  time  when  this  pretty  chalet  would  content  them  for 
a  home.  For  her  husband,  at  least,  was  still  in  reality 
a  prisoner,  though  the  bounds  of  his  prison  had  been  so 
gloriously  enlarged.  "  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison 
make";  but  the  converse  of  this  is  also  true:  that  the 
fairest  scene  in  which  there  is  only  limited  freedom  may 
come  to  wear  the  aspect  of  one.  She  might  come  and 
go,  but  he  would  have  to  stay  here. 

But  the  time  for  such  thoughts  had  not  yet  come. 
The  peace  and  the  freedom  were  absolute,  and  made 
themselves  felt.  Nancy  would  have  liked  to  have  her 
dear  John  to  herself  on  this  first  evening,  but  with  her 
father  there  they  could  not  have  been  alone  in  any  case, 
and  she  knew  how  intensely  her  husband  was  aware  of 
her  all  the  time  he  was  talking  to  his  guests,  and  be- 
having much  as  if  they  had  all  been  seated  round  his 
table  at  home. 

John's  disabled  arm  worried  her  more  than  it  seemed 
to  worry  him,  but  she  was  already  getting  used  to  it. 
He  was  the  only  one  of  the  four  whose  damage  was 
apparent  as  they  sat  at  table.     One  of  them  had  used 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  857 

a  crutch  to  walk  with,  the  other  two  were,  in  appearance, 
whole  and  sound.  The  man  on  John's  right,  who  had 
been  in  the  same  prison  camp  as  he,  cut  up  his  food  for 
him,  and  the  attention  was  accepted  as  a  matter  of 
course.  The  man  with  the  unhealed  leg  was  given  a 
hassock  on  which  he  could  stretch  it,  and  its  whereabouts 
under  the  table  was  carefully  noted  so  that  those  sit- 
ting opposite  to  him  should  not  knock  against  it. 
Wounds  and  the  healing  of  wounds  were  a  part  of  their 
lives,  to  be  talked  about  with  interest,  but  with  absence 
of  emotion.  They  talked  about  them  now  chiefly  in  the 
light  of  what  might  further  be  done  for  them  by  Swiss 
doctors.  John  was  to  have  regular  massage  of  his 
shoulder,  and  hoped  to  gain  great  benefit  from  it.  He 
thought  he  could  already  raise  his  arm  a  fraction  of 
an  inch  higher,  after  one  rubbing.  Others  who  had 
come  out  with  them  were  to  have  treatment  at  the  hands 
of  the.  best  surgeons  in  Switzerland,  than  whom  there 
are  none  better.  They  talked  of  it  all  naturally  and 
hopefully ;  but  it  was  no  more  than  an  added  topic  of 
conversation.  They  were  not  like  men  making  the  best 
of  a  bad  job.  They  had  accepted  their  disablements. 
If  they  could  be  lessened,  so  much  the  better;  if  not, 
there  was  plenty  left,  for  all  of  them.  The  huge  ca- 
tastrophe of  death  and  ruin  that  was  surging  through 
the  world  was  being  met  by  an  opposing  wave  of  life, 
strong  and  urgent  to  heal  and  to  cover  up  the  ruin. 
These  wounded  men,  released  from  the  greater  trouble, 
were  on  the  crest  of  it.  They  did  not  want  to  dwell 
upon  what  could  not  be  restored.  They  did  not  want 
sympathy,  except  from  those  dear  to  them,  still  less 
pity.  What  they  wanted  was  to  feel  themselves  again 
in  the  warm  current  of  everyday  life,  men  like  other 
men,  with  power  to  take  and  to  enjoy. 


358  THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

The  Squire  had  been  prepared  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war  to  look  upon  the  Germans  as  honourable  foes, 
who  would  play  the  game  of  war  according  to  its  time- 
honoured  rules,  and  need  not  be  hated  because  they 
played  it  against  us.  But  he  had  loner  sine  come  to 
regard  them  as  dehumanized  brutes,  vile  and  cruel  and 
cowardly  to  a  man.  He  had  often  clenched  his  fist  in 
impotent  anger  over  their  crimes  against  humanity, 
which  must  perforce  go  unpunished  until  the  day  of 
reckoning,  when  vengeance  should  be  exacted  to  the  ut- 
termost. And  especially  with  regard  to  their  treatment 
of  prisoners  he  had  felt  this  smouldering  rage.  He  had 
come  to  Switzerland  expectant  of  fuel  to  feed  it ;  and 
fuel  there  was  in  some  of  the  things  he  heard  over  his 
son-in-law's  dinner-table. 

But  German  brutality  was  not  what  these  men  wanted 
to  talk  about.  Brutality  towards  any  of  themselves 
they  would  not  talk  about  at  all,  though  the  Squire 
learned  that  one  of  them  had  suffered  the  crudest  in- 
dignities. It  was  not  only  that  they  wanted  to  forget 
what  they  had  suffered.  There  emerged  from  their  talk 
a  vision  of  the  undaunted  British  spirit,  triumphant 
even  when  the  balance  was  weighed  against  it  by  all  the 
power  and  none  of  the  mere}7.  To  treat  of  the  Boche 
as  a  hated  oppressor,  with  whom  some  day  they  would 
get  even,  was  to  give  him  too  much  value.  He  emerged 
as  something  in  the  mass  brutal  and  stupid,  but  also 
as  something  contemptible  —  a  being  without  humour 
and  without  real  dignity,  in  spite  of  his  drilled  conceit, 
whose  bullying  spirit  could  be  reduced  in  the  long  run  by 
the  finer  spirit  of  self-respecting  manhood. 

They  could  afford  to  laugh  at  him,  and  did  laugh 
at  him,  especially  over  stories  which  showed  the  irre- 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  :jr><) 

pressible  spirit  of  the  rank  and  file  of  their  fellow 
prisoners. 

It  was  the  lighter  side  of  everything  they  looked  at  in 
those  first  happy  days  of  freedom.  The  Squire  gained 
his  impressions,  but  found  little  echo  of  his  own  deep- 
seated  sense  of  rage.  It  was  there,  under  the  sur- 
face, but  because  they  had  been  subjected  to  the  out- 
rage, to  be  hidden  from  the  world.  They  were  scrupu- 
lously fair  too.  Any  kindness,  any  decency  of  treat- 
ment even,  was  acknowledged.  The  Boche  was  human 
here  and  there. 

The  Squire  went  to  bed  rather  puzzled.  It  pleased 
him  to  think  of  these  English  gentlemen  having  borne 
themselves  after  the  manner  of  their  kind,  and  so  little 
broken  by  their  bitter  experience  that  one  could  scarcely 
have  divined  that  they  had  been  through  it.  But  it 
would  not  do  for  all  the  world  to  treat  the  misdeeds  of 
the  blackguardly  enemy  as  lightly  as  they  did.  He 
must  be  made  to  pay,  and  to  pay  to  the  last  farthing. 

VI 

The  village  ofMontex,  where  the  released  prisoners 
were  interned,  was  an  old  established  pleasure  resort  of 
the  quieter  kind.  Travellers  had  come  by  diligence  to 
its  modest  hotels  long  before  the  days  of  holiday  rush, 
to  enjoy  themselves  among  its  pastures  and  mountain 
woods.  The  peasants  of  the  country  round  prospered 
from  their  cheese-making  and  the  cutting  of  their  timber. 
Visitors  came  for  a  few  months  in  the  summer,  and  for 
the  rest  of  the  year  they  lived  the  pastoral  life  that  had 
gone  on  for  centuries,  and  missed  them  not  at  all. 
Then  came  the  discovery  of  Switzerland  as  a  winter  re- 


3G0  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

sort,  and  Montex  had  its  second  season  for  skating, 
ski-ing  and  lugeing.  A  few  hotels  were  built,  an  Eng- 
lish church,  residential  chalets,  and  modest  blocks  of 
flats.  There  were  permanent  residents,  many  of  whom 
were  English,  and  the  hotels  and  pensions  filled  up  twice 
a  year,  for  some  weeks  in  the  summer  and  some  weeks 
in  the  winter.  But  the  life  of  the  valley  went  on  un- 
changed, and  little  affected  by  the  growth  of  the  town. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  just  when  the  summer 
holiday  season  was  beginning,  Montex  emptied  as  if  by 
magic.  A  few  of  the  foreign  residents  remained,  and 
one  or  more  of  the  hotels  were  opened  for  a  week  or  two 
now  and  then ;  but  for  nearly  two  years  the  place  had 
reverted  almost  to  its  former  state  of  a  purely  Swiss 
pastoral  community. 

Now  all  that  was  altered.  Soldiers  in  khaki  were 
more  in  evidence  in  Montex  than  the  peasants  in  their 
blue  blouses ;  the  hotels  and  pensions  not  given  over  to 
the  soldiers  were  filling  up  with  the  relations  of  officers 
from  England  or  with  visitors  from  other  parts  of 
Switzerland,  attracted  here  by  the  revivified  English 
atmosphere:  the  empty  chalets  and  flats  were  rapidly 
being  let. 

Life,  indeed,  was  flowing  freely  again  in  Montex,  and 
in  much  the  same  holiday  currents  as  in  the  days  of 
peace.  The  lawn  tennis  courts  and  the  gardens  round 
them  were  crowded,  morning,  afternoon  and  evening. 
There  were  tea  parties  and  bridge  parties  and  dances. 
The  younger  officers  acquired  dogs  and  pony-carts:  the 
demand  for  saddle  horses  excited  the  farmers  for  miles 
around.  In  the  early  days  of  internment  British  of- 
ficers had  no  duties  among  the  men,  who  were  under  the 
Swiss  Military  authorities.     They  had  nothing  to  do 


TPIE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  361 

but  to  amuse  themselves,  and  to  get  well.  Getting 
well  took  up  a  good  deal  of  time  and  attention  from  day 
to  day.  Otherwise,  making  holiday  was  the  sole  occu- 
pation of  the  majority,  and  considering  the  experiences 
they  had  gone  through,  could  be  looked  upon  almosl 
as  a  duty  in  itself.  It  was  part  of  the  getting  well,  in 
mind  as  in  body. 

It  was  many  years  since  the  Squire  had  taken  what 
could  definitely  be  called  a  holiday.  There  were  those 
who  might  have  said  that  his  whole  life  was  a  holiday, 
considering  that  he  did  what  suited  him  best  in  sur- 
roundings more  congenial  than  any  others,  and  whatever 
his  days  contained  of  work  made  no  great  demands  upon 
him.  For  years  past  he  had  seldom  slept  away  from 
Kencote.  Since  the  marriages  of  the  twins,  five  and 
six  years  before,  he  had  stayed  twice  with  the  Inverells 
to  shoot  grouse  and  once  with  the  Spences  to  shoot 
pheasants,  and  each  time,  though  he  had  enjoyed  him- 
self, he  had  been  glad  to  get  home.  He  had  paid  no 
other  visits  during  those  years,  and  if  he  had  run  up 
to  London  occasionally  it  had  always  been  on  the  pre- 
text of  business,  and  he  had  been  still  more  glad  to  get 
home. 

But  this  holiday  was  necessary  for  him.  His  life 
for  the  last  two  years  had  been  far  more  full  of  affairs 
than  it  had  ever  been,  and  any  sort  of  change  and  rest 
would  have  done  him  good.  He  pottered  about  with 
John  and  Nancy,  and  with  the  friends  and  acquaintances 
he  had  made.  He  went  to  more  houses  in  a  week  than 
he  had  previously  visited  in  ten  years.  He  would  sit 
in  the  tennis  pavilion  watching  the  play  and  talking  in 
his  loud,  confident  voice  —  but  neither  so  loud  nor  so 
confident  as  it  had  been  —  to  any  one  whom  he  nut 


362         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

there,  but  mostly  to  men.  He  was  a  figure  in  the  place, 
older  than  any  one  of  the  English  group,  and  of  more 
social  importance  than  most. 

He  was  greatly  interested  in  the  talk  he  heard,  and 
the  men  who  had  come  out  of  prison  were  interested  in 
his  talk.  For  their  news  from  home  had  been  scarce, 
and  any  one  who  could  tell  them  of  what  had  happened 
in  England  while  they  had  been  shut  up  in  Germany  was 
a  god-send.  The  Squire  told  them  a  good  deal,  but 
unfortunately  left  them  with  the  impression  that  what 
had  happened  in  England  redounded  little  to  the  credit 
of  his  country,  which  was  not  the  general  impression 
that  he  wished  to  convey.  Allowances,  however,  were 
easily  made  for  this.  His  type  was  too  recognizable 
for  possibility  of  error  as  to  where  he  stood.  When 
a  cosmopolitan  Englishman  married  to  a  Belgian  wife 
advanced  some  opinion  that  belittled  the  effort  of  Eng- 
land, he  flared  up  at  once  in  his  country's  defence,  as 
he  might  have  been  expected  to  do.  The  grumblings 
were  only  for  home  consumption,  and  Montex,  in  the 
occupation  of  its  British  guests,  was  a  bit  of  home. 

But  after  a  week  of  lotus-eating,  at  the  end  of  which 
he  had  regained  the  health  which  he  would  have  said  he 
had  never  lost,  the  absence  of  definite  occupation  began, 
as  the  French  would  say,  to  tap  upon  his  system.  As 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  this  was  not  getting  on  with 
the  war. 

John  Spence  and  Nancy  were  sitting  together  one 
evening  on  the  verandah  of  their  chalet  watching  the 
moon  rise  behind  the  mountains.  The  Squire  was  writ- 
ing letters  indoors,  and  they  were  out  of  hearing  of 
him.  They  were  never  tired  of  being  alone.  Her  hand 
was  in  his  as  they  talked,  and  her  head  often  rested 
against  his  shoulder. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR 


363 


They  had  been  talking  of  their  children,  whom  he  had 
not  seen  for  two  years.  They  had  already  disc 
whether  it  would  not  be  possible  to  bring  the  th 
them  out.  But  the  eldest  was  only  five,  and  the  young- 
est had  been  an  infant  in  arms  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
war.  It  would  be  a  big  business  to  bring  them  all  across 
Europe  under  present  conditions  of  travelling.  The 
idea  of  it,  for  that  and  other  reasons,  had  reluctantly 
been  given  up.  Nancy  was  to  stay  with  him  for  a  couple 
of  months,  and  then  return  to  England.  She  was  to 
come  back  after  Christmas,  if  the  war  lasted  so  long. 
But  at  that  time  the  opinion  was  that  peace  would  be 
in  sight  before  the  winter.  Much  was  expected  from  the 
British  offensive  which  was  about  to  begin  on  the  Somme. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  you," 
John  said.  "  We'll  hope  that  by  the  time  you  go  away 
we  shall  know  something  of  what's  likely  to  happen. 
If  not,  I  can  stick  it  until  you  come  out  again,  though 
what  I  shall  do  with  myself  I  don't  know.  Learn 
French,  perhaps." 

"  I  wish  I  could  stay  with  you  all  the  time,  darling," 
said  Nancy,  "  or  have  the  children  out  here.  We  should 
all  be  happy  enough.     But  I  suppose  I  can't." 

"  Oh,  no.  We've  settled  that.  I  feel  sort  of  hungry 
for  the  kiddies ;  but  it's  best  for  them  to  be  at  home. 
And  you  mustn't  stay  away  from  them  too  long.  We'll 
make  the  best  of  our  time  here  together.  After  all, 
it's  the  best  time  we've  had  since  we've  been  married. 
There  are  heaps  of  people  not  so  lucky  as  we  are." 

"  One  has  always  to  be  thinking  of  that  —  how  lucky 
we  are  really.  This  is  a  lovely  place.  We  can  be  very 
happy  here.  But  I'm  afraid  you  won't  be  so  pleased 
with  it,  darling,  when  the  summer  is  over,  and  you  have 
to  stay  on  all  alone." 


364  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

"  Don't  suppose  I  shall.  But  we  won't  spoil  it  by 
looking  too  far  ahead.  Doesn't  pay  to  do  that  in  these 
days.  Take  what  you  can  get  and  be  thankful  for  it. 
It's  doing  the  old  boy  good,  I  think,  being  here.  He's 
worlds  better  already." 

"  Poor  old  Daddy !  If  you'd  seen  him  before  he 
came  here!     Has  he  talked  to  you  about  Dick  yet?" 

"  Not  a  word.  And  you  said  I  wasn't  to  mention  his 
name  till  he  did."  I 

She  squeezed  his  big  hand.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  him 
what  you  told  me,"  she  said.  "  But  I'm  sure  it  will  be 
best  to  wait  till  he  asks  you.  He  knows  you  were  with 
him  when  he  died,  from  your  letter.  He  is  sure  to  want 
to  know  more.  He  will  give  you  an  opportunity  of  tell- 
ing him  when  he's  ready  for  it.  I  don't  think  he  is  yet, 
though  I  believe  he  has  begun  to  recover  himself." 

When  Nancy  went  up  to  bed,  the  Squire  came  out 
and  sat  on  the  verandah,  and  smoked  a  cigar.  Usually 
he  allowed  himself  only  one  after  dinner,  and  went  to 
bed  soon  after  ten  o'clock.  As  he  grew  older  his  hours 
of  sleep  reduced  themselves,  but  he  could  always  sleep 
early  in  the  night. 

He  sat  for  some  time  in  silence,  watching  the  moon, 
which  had  swung  clear  of  the  mountains,  the  quiet  valley 
whose  shadows  were  streaked  by  its  beams,  and  the 
lights  of  the  village  beneath  them.  "  It's  a  peaceful 
spot,  this,"  he  said.  "  Not  difficult  to  forget  something 
of  what  is  going  on,  shut  up  here." 

He  was  not  wont  to  show  himself  affected  by  his  sur- 
roundings in  this  way.  Healing  thoughts  seemed  to  be 
coming  to  him.  Perhaps,  under  the  influence  of  the 
calm  night  he  was  feeling  after  some  word  of  his  son, 
ready  now  to  receive  it. 

John  hoped  it  might  be  so.      "  Best  to  forget  as  much 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  365 

as  you  can,  when  you've  done  all  you  can,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  There's  a  lot  you  want  to  remember, 
though." 

"  Seems  to  me  that's  going  to  be  the  trouble  in  this 
place,"  said  the  Squire.  "  All  of  you  want  to  get  well 
again.  Nobody  wants  to  hurry  that.  But  we're  not 
nearly  through  with  it  yet.  Won't  do  for  anybody  to 
forget  what  still  has  to  be  done." 

John  was  disappointed.  Had  he  been  clumsy  in  what 
he  had  said,  and  pushed  away  a  confidence?  He  was 
diffident  about  his  own  tact,  though  it  was  that  of  a  true 
and  simple  nature,  and  would  never  lead  him  far  wrong. 

"  Of  course,  for  all  of  you,"  the  Squire  went  on, 
"  nothing  could  be  better  than  this  —  for  a  time." 

"  Getting  back  to  England  would  be  better,"  said 
John. 

"  Oh,  yes.  But  that  can't  be,  and  you're  next  best 
off  here.  But  I'm  afraid  you'll  get  sick  to  death  of  it 
after  a  bit,  and  I  very  much  doubt  whether  it  will  be  a 
good  thing  for  the  men  to  be  kicking  their  heels  in  idle- 
ness. Still,  that  will  all  work  itself  out  in  time.  Got 
to  get  well  first,  and  no  harm  in  amusing  yourself  as 
much  as  you  can  in  a  place  like  this  in  the  meantime. 
But  all  these  people  who  have  collected  here  —  I'm  not 
so  sure  about  them.  There  are  certainly  a  good  many 
who  could  do  something  if  they  wanted  to." 

"  A  few  might.  I  don't  think  there  are  very  many. 
Women  chiefly,  and  men  over  military  age." 

"Well,  what's  all  this  pack  of  women  doing  here?" 
The  Squire  was  now  fairly  launched.  "  Seems  to  me 
a  lot  of  them  are  here  for  the  sake  of  picking  up  hus- 
bands—  if  not  for  themselves,  for  their  daughters. 
Anyhow,  they're  mostly  here  to  amuse  themselves. 
Makes  you  open  your  eyes  to  see  how  many  people  there 


366         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

are  still  who  can't  take  the  thing  seriously.  It  was 
the  same  in  Paris.  I'm  precious  glad  Ronald  Inverell 
is  through  with  his  troubles.  Of  course  he's  doing 
something.  But  —  oh,  well,  I  wasn't  quite  satisfied 
with  the  way  he  and  Joan  are  taking  things.  And  it's 
the  same  everywhere  you  go." 

John  Spence  felt  a  tired  droop  of  spirit.  During 
the  long  months  of  his  imprisonment  he  and  the  older 
men  who  had  been  with  him  had  had  the  progress  of  the 
war  terribly  on  their  minds.  Since  he  had  been  in  Swit- 
zerland he  seemed  to  himself  almost  to  have  lost  inter- 
est in  it.  He  was,  in  fact,  convalescing,  in  spirit  as  well 
as  in  body.  He  was  not  yet  ready  to  take  up  the  mental 
burden  again,  but  neither  was  he  comfortable  in  being 
made  to  think  that  he  didn't  much  care  how  the  war 
went  for  the  time  being,  except  in  so  far  as  it  affected 
himself.  As  for  Ronald  Inverell,  surely  he  had  earned 
the  right  to  enjoy  his  life  again!  He  would  bear  the 
marks  of  it  all  his  days ;  and  he  was  "  doing  something," 
which  it  was  to  be  supposed  had  to  be  done  by  some- 
body. 

He  said  little  as  the  Squire  talked  on.  What  was 
plain  from  his  talk  was  that  he  himself  was  coming  to  the 
end  of  the  time  when  he  could  benefit  from  a  life  of 
idleness ;  but  he  probably  did  not  recognize  this  as 
counting  in  the  dissatisfaction  he  expressed.  His  ap- 
proval of  a  round  of  mild  gaieties  as  helping  the  interned 
to  recover  themselves  was  not  entirely  ungrudging.  It 
became  strong  disapproval  when  he  adverted  on  those 
who  had  seized  upon  it  without  such  an  excuse.  Fid- 
dling while  Rome  was  burning  —  that  was  the  burden 
of  his  charge  against  the  life  immediately  around  him. 
John  Spence  was  depressed  by  his  tirade,  but  inclined 
to  think  there  was  something  in  it. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  367 

He  told  Nancy  so  when  he  went  up  to  her,  and  .she 
was  greatly  disturbed.  "  Oh,  my  darling  old  thing," 
she  said.  "  Please  don't  worry  yourself  about  that,  or 
about  anything,  just  now.  Just  leave  it  all  alone. 
Father  doesn't  understand  yet.  But  he  will.  I'm  sure 
he  will  in  time." 

VII 

One  sign  that  the  Squire  was  beginning  to  get  back 
to  himself  was  that  he  talked  more  about  Kencote  than 
he  had  done  at  any  time  since  he  had  become  obsessed 
by  the  idea  of  the  War. 

It  came  about  naturally.  He  and  John  Spence  were 
both  large  landowners,  and  the  war  was  already  deeply 
affecting  the  business  of  agriculture.  There  was  room 
for  endless  discussion  of  measures  that  were  being  taken 
by  the  Government,  and  of  controversies  that  were  be- 
ing aroused  by  those  measures,  some  of  the  experts  tak- 
ing this  line  and  some  taking  that.  Spence's  own  agent 
was  a  recognized  expert,  whose  views  sometimes  ap- 
peared in  letters  to  the  papers.  His  large  property 
was  in  safe  hands,  and  he  had  no  need  to  worry  himself 
over  details. 

The  Squire  did  not  employ  an  agent  of  that  calibre 
at  Kencote.  He  had  always  managed  his  estates  him- 
self, with  the  help  of  a  bailiff,  and  for  a  good  many 
years  he  and  Dick  had  managed  them  in  conjunction. 
Dick  understood  the  business  as  well  as  any  profes- 
sionally trained  agent  could  have  done,  and  had  really 
decided  everything,  though  he  had  apparently  deferred 
to  his  father's  authority. 

Fortunately,  the  Squire  held  to  the  views  of  Web- 
ster, Spence's  agent,  in  the  various  controversies  that 
were  on  foot  at  this  time,  and  had  acted  upon  them. 


368         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

There  was  therefore  no  difference  of  opinion  between 
him  and  John  as  to  the  course  that  ought  to  be  shaped. 
But  that  course  sometimes  involved  sharp  criticism  of 
Government  action,  which  opened  the  door  for  a  good 
many  tirades  against  the  way  the  war  was  being  run  in 
England.  These  tirades  never  failed  to  depress  John's 
spirits,  and  Nancy  grew  to  dread  them.  But  she  was 
generally  able  to  turn  them  back  to  a  discussion  of  the 
effect  of  the  changes  upon  Kencote  itself. 

One  day,  at  luncheon,  when  they  had  been  talking  over 
some  far-reaching  regulation  that  had  recently  been  an- 
nounced, the  Squire  said :  "  Dick  and  I  used  to  talk 
about  that.     He  agreed  with  me  absolutely." 

Having  mentioned  Dick's  name,  he  bethought  himself, 
and  his  face  changed.  John  said :  "  Poor  old  Dick ! 
His  opinion  was  worth  having.  I  don't  think  he'd  have 
stood  for  this  new  move." 

The  Squire  went  on  talking,  but  in  a  lower  key,  and 
Dick's  name  was  not  mentioned  again. 

Themext  time,  however,  that  estate  affairs  were  under 
discussion,  he  brought  it  in  himself,  not  inadvertently, 
but  as  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  so.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  wanted  to  connect  the  son  whom  he  had  lost  with 
this  subject  which  had  been  the  chief  interest  in  his  life, 
and  the  greatest  tie  between  them.  But  it  was  made 
plain,  somehow,  that  he  was  not  yet  ready  to  talk  of 
Dick's  death. 

What  he  did  come  to  talk  about  quite  freely  was 
Walter's  heirship  to  the  property,  which,  Nancy  had 
told  John,  was  a  subject  he  had  never  mentioned  up  to 
this  time.  To  that  extent  he  had  accustomed  himself  to 
Dick's  loss,  and  to  that  extent  his  life-long  preoccupa- 
tions once  more  had  sway  with  him. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  369 

Walter,  the  third  of  the  four  Clinton  sons,  had  been 
intended  for  Holy  Orders,  and  the  reversion  of  the  com- 
fortable rectory  of  Kencote,  now  held  by  the  Squire's 
half-brother.  But  he  had  chosen  to  be  a  doctor.  Ai 
the  outbreak  of  the  war  he  had  been  in  good  practice 
as  a  consultant  in  Harley  Street,  and  the  Squire's 
distaste  for  his  profession,  as  being  against  the  tradi- 
tion of  such  a  f  amily  as  the  Clintons,  had  given  \\  ay 
to  satisfaction  at  his  success.  Walter  had  of  course 
"joined  up,"  at  the  very  beginning,  and  had  quickly 
gone  up  the  ladder.  He  was  now  a  Colonel  —  up  to  his 
eyes  in  work  with  the  armies  in  France  —  and  not  un- 
likely to  become  a  Surgeon-General  if  the  war  lasted 
on. 

It  was  significant  of  the  Squire's  way  of  looking  at 
things  that  this  son,  who  had  accomplished  far  more  than 
any  of  the  four  in  the  varied  activities  of  the  war, 
should  have  to  be  almost  apologized  for. 

Dick  had  retired  from  his  regiment  as  a  Captain,  and 
rejoined  as  a  Captain.  Humphrey  had  not  reached 
Captain's  rank  before  he  had  been  killed.  Frank,  the 
youngest  son,  had  been  a  lieutenant  in  the  navy  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  and  had  only  recently  become 
a  lieutenant-commander.  He  was  doing  his  quiet,  un- 
remitting work  with  the  rest,  but  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity for  him  of  a  brilliant  rise.  None  of  the  Clintons, 
except  Walter,  had  done  more  than  what  thousands  of 
others  had  done,  though  two  of  them  had  lost  their  lives 
in  doing  it.  But  the  Squire  never  mentioned  Wall 
his  new  acquaintances  without  that  half-apology. 
was  in  his  militia  for  a  few  years  before  he  took  up  tliis 
doctoring,"  he  would  say.  "  But,  of  course,  doctors 
are  just  the  people  they  can't  spare,  unfortunately,  or 


370         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

he'd  have  been  fighting.  Still,  I'm  glad  he's  making 
himself  useful.  He's  a  clever  fellow,  and  they're  giv- 
ing him  plenty  to  do." 

All  the  younger  generation  of  Clintons  had  brains, 
as  the  saying  goes,  which  they  had  probablv  inherited 
from  their  mother's  family,  but  Walter  was  the  only 
one  of  them  who  had  used  his  to  conspicuous  advantage. 
His  taste  for  country  pursuits  had  ha  □  as  >trong  as 
any  of  his  brothers',  in  their  youth,  and  had  provided 
the  chief  of  his  recreations  since  he  had  become  im- 
mersed in  the  work  of  his  profession.  But  John  and 
Nancy  had  discussed  between  themselves  whether  he 
would  be  content  to  turn  himself  into  the  entire  country 
gentleman,  as  Dick  had  done,  as  Humphrey  would  have 
done,  if  his  death  had  not  closely  followed  Dick's  ;  and 
as  Frank  would  do,  if  he  were  the  heir.  Would  the 
Squire  expect  it  of  him?  He  would  certainly  have  ex- 
pected it  but  for  the  war.  Whether  he  thought  of  it 
now  would  be  a  strong  indication  as  to  how  the  obses- 
sion of  the  war  still  affected  him. 

One  morning  there  came  a  letter  from  Walter.  Be- 
yond the  statement  that  he  was  well,  and  had  sent  his 
love* to  John  and  Nancy,  the  Squire  vouchsafed  no  in- 
formation as  to  what  the  letter  had  contained  :  but  it 
seemed  that  he  was  not  quite  pleased  with  it.  He  was 
moody  and  rather  irritable  during  the  rest  of  the  day, 
but  in  the  evening,  over  the  dinner-table,  it  all  came  out. 

W alter  had  suggested  his  asking  Webster,  John's 
agent,  to  find  somebody  like  himself  for  Kencote,  who 
would  take  the  responsibility  of  management  off  their 
shoulders,  and  in  whom  they  could  have  confidence. 

"I  don't  say  it's  not  a  good  idea."  said  the  Squire 
grudgingly,  "and  if*  the  war  is  to  go  on  through  this 
winter  I  shall  probably  do  it.     But  I  had  hoped  that 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  371 

Walter  would  have  settled  down  at  Kencote,  where  he'll 
belong  now  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  set  his  own  mind 
to  the  business.  He'd  have  a  good  deal  to  learn,  but 
not  everything;  and  he's  clever  at  picking  up  things. 
He's  made  a  success  of  this  doctoring  business,  but 
there's  no  need  to  keep  on  at  that  now." 

"  Well,  he  couldn't  very  well  give  it  up  before  the 
war's  over,"  said  John.  "  After  that  I  suppose  he 
might." 

"  He  says  he'll  be  wanted  after  the  war,"  grumbled 
the  Squire.  "  I  should  have  thought  there'd  have  been 
plenty  of  them  without  him." 

Nancy  liked  to  have  things  quite  direct.  "  Does  he 
want  to  go  on  doctoring  permanently?  "  she  asked. 

The  Squire  didn't  know  what  he  wanted.  He  had 
said  "  after  the  war."  He  didn't  seem  to  take  any  in- 
terest in  Kencote  at  all.  The  Squire  had  written  to  him 
before  leaving  England  about  a  good  many  points  that 
he  didn't  want  to  decide  upon  without  him,  and  he  had 
answered  none  of  his  questions ;  he  had  thrown  all  the 
responsibilities  back  on  his  shoulders,  and  made  this 
suggestion  of  an  agent. 

"  Too  busy  to  think  about  it,  I  expect,"  said  John. 
"  I  should  get  an  agent  if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Clinton,  and 
as  soon  as  possible.  Webster  is  sure  to  know  of  some- 
body.    I'll  write  to  him  if  you  like." 

The  Squire  hummed  and  ha'd,  and  finally  accepted  the 
proposal.  The  discussion  lasted  for  two  or  three  days, 
and  it  became  plain  that  Walter  had  quite  definitely  re- 
fused to  concern  himself  with  Kencote  at  present,  or  to 
bind  himself  to  anything  for  the  future. 


372         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

VIII 

When  the  Squire  had  been  at  Montex  for  a  fortnight, 
and  was  beginning  to  talk  about  going  home  again, 
another  letter  came  from  Walter*  to  say  that  he  had 
secured  a  week's  leave;  and  permission  to  spend  it  in 
Switzerland.      He  would  be  with  them  two  days  later. 

Nancy  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  The  situation 
was  getting  beyond  her  control.  The  Squire  had  re- 
covered his  health  and  had  thrown  off  much  of  the  heavy 
depression  that  had  been  sitting  on  him  like  a  nightmare. 
But  his  recovery  brought  no  solace  to  those  who  were 
living  with  him,  and  would  certainly  bring  none  to  those 
to  whom  he  would  soon  be  returning.  His  disapproval 
of  the  unstrenuous  life  that  was  being  lived  immediately 
around  him  was  beginning  to  be  felt,  though  he  thought 
he  was  hiding  it.  He  was  not  quite  so  popular  among 
the  internes  and  their  families  as  he  had  been,  and  some 
of  his  speeches  were  beginning  to  be  put  about,  per- 
haps exaggerated,  and  to  be  resented. 

And  his  companionship  now  definitely  had  a  bad  ef- 
fect upon  John  Spence,  who  was  not  yet  in  a  state  of 
mind  to  re^i>t  worries  brought  to  him  from  outside. 
Nancy  knew  that  if  she  had  had  him  alone,  and  sur~ 
rounded  him  with  the  little  interests  and  pleasures  of 
an  idle,  unreflective  life,  in  those  beautiful  surroundings, 
sheltered,  and  to  all  present  intents  free,  he  would  have 
been  his  old  self  in  a  very  short  time.  But  he  was  al- 
ready feeling  himself  confined,  kicking  against  the  fate 
that  kept  him  inactive  while  so  much  still  remained  to  be 
done,  and  brooding  over  the  delinquencies  of  others,  of 
which  the  old  Squire  was  always  so  full.  She  asJced 
herself  more  than  once  whether  she  had  been  right  in 
encouraging  her  father  to  come  out  to  Switzerland  with 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  373 

her.  If  he  should  not  be  sent  back  more  in  tune  with 
the  world  than  he  had  been,  but  should  only  have  hin- 
dered her  husband's  recovery,  she  would  much  regret 
it. 

The  fact  was  that  he  wanted  managing  —  always. 
Mrs.  Clinton  in  her  quiet,  composed  way,  had  an  influ- 
ence over  him;  so  had  Virginia,  his  daughter-in-law. 
But  their  influence  had  not  been  strong  enough  in  this 
overpowering  trouble.  Dick  had  managed  him  beauti- 
fully.    Would  Walter  be  able  to? 

Nancy  had  faith  in  Walter.  He  was  very  competent 
and  level-headed.  Dick  had  been  that  too,  but  with 
a  coolness  and  apparent  absence  of  effort  that  was  not 
so  marked  in  Walter.  It  was  that  calm  air  that  had 
told  upon  the  Squire;  and  all  Dick's  activities  of  mind 
and  body  had  been  concerned  with  the  things  with  which 
the  Squire  was  also  concerned.  Walter's  was  a  wider 
range.  His  mastery  over  the  affairs  of  his  life  had 
touched  his  father  only  here  and  there.  His  word 
would  not  have  the  weight  that  Dick's  had  had,  and  he 
was  not  so  likely  to  gauge  the  points  at  which  he  might 
exercise  pressure  and  the  points  where  he  must  tread 
lightly. 

But  he  had  a  very  quick  understanding.  And  it 
seemed  likely  that  he  had  decided  to  spend  the  days  of 
his  rare  leave  in  Switzerland  because  he  saw  that  some- 
thing wanted  doing  there.  His  wife  and  children  were 
at  home  in  England  and  he  had  not  seen  them  for 
months. 

All  three  of  them  were  to  have  gone  to  Lausanne  to 
meet  him,  but  in  those  early  days  of  internment  restric- 
tions were  made  rather  irksome,  and  John  was  refused 
permission  to  absent  himself  for  a  night.  Nancy  stayed 
with  him,  but  wished  she  could  have  had  Walter's  ear 


3T4-         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

for  a  time  before  her  father  had  it  exclusively.  1} 
seemed  almost  as  if  he  himself  wanted  to  have  his 
voluminous  say  first,  for  there  was  small  reason  for 
him  to  undertake  the  journey,  and  to  submit  himself 
to  the  unfamiliar  rigours  of  a  foreign  hotel,  for  the 
sake  of  meeting  Walter  early  the  next  morning,  and 
accompanying  him  back  to  Montex  by  the  earliest  pos- 
sible train. 

They  arrived  in  the  afternoon,  and  on  the  first  op- 
portunity Walter  said  to  Nancy :  "  Arrange  for  you 
and  me  to  go  out  for  a  walk.     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Nancy's  heart  lightened.  It  had  been  inclined  to 
sink  when  she  had  seen,  on  their  arrival,  her  father  evi- 
dently out  of  humour  about  something,  and  Walter  as 
evidently  playing  the  part  of  seeing  nothing  to  put  any- 
body out  of  humour.  Walter  was  only  marking  time 
until  he  could  decide  in  consultation  with  her  the  course 
he  was  to  pursue. 

Walter  was  indeed  a  man  to  rely  on.  Even  the 
Squire,  in  spite  of  his  air  of  general  dissatisfaction,  re- 
sponded to  his  cheerful  leadership  as  they  sat  over 
the  tea-table,  and  John  was  more  his  old  responsive  self 
than  he  had  been  since  the  first  few  days  of  their 
arrival.  Walter  seemed  to  bring  a  new  breath  of 
optimism  and  decision  into  the  atmosphere.  He  was  in 
private  clothes,  as  a  visitor  to  a  neutral  country,  but 
there  was  an  air  of  military  authority  about  him,  and 
he  looked  like  a  soldier,  with  his  upright,  active  figure 
and  his  small  clipped  moustache.  The  Squire  let  fall 
some  observations  which  showed  him  still  regretful  that 
this  son  of  his  was  not  a  combatant  officer ;  but  Walter 
put  them  aside,  not  without  a  hint  of  impatience.  He 
was  too  big  a  man  to  be  hankering  after  the  extra  kudos 
that  fighting  rank  would  have  brought  him.     He  was 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  375 

doing  the  work  for  which  his  life  training  had  fitted 
him,  and  all  his  thoughts  were  centred  on  it. 

It  was  this  point  upon  which  he  first  expressed  him- 
self to  Nancy,  when  presently  they  were  alone  together, 
walking  up  a  high  mountain  path  behind  the  village. 
"  I  wish  father  could  get  some  sense  of  values  into  his 
head,"  he  said.  "  I  really  believe  he'd  rather  see  me  a 
middle-aged  captain,  with  everything  to  learn  about  my 
job,  than  doing  what  I  can  do  better  than  most." 

"  Poor  old  father !  "  said  Nancy  hastily.  "  Walter, 
dear,  you  mustn't  be  impatient  with  him.  He  has  had 
so  much  to  make  him  sad,  and  to  upset  him  altogether. 
I  believe  he  really  is  getting  better,  and  all  his  little  old 
tiresomenesses  cropping  up  again  show  it.  I'm  so 
thankful  you  have  come.  I  believe  you  can  put  him 
right,  and  John  too.  But  you  will  have  to  be  careful. 
It's  of  no  use  to  get  at  loggerheads  with  him." 

Walter  laughed  good-humouredly.  "  Just  a  little 
private  grumble,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  can  see  how  the 
land  lies.  I  came  here  to  see  if  I  could  put  things  right. 
Jolly  glad  to  see  you  and  John,  old  girl,  and  the  Gov- 
ernor too ;  but  I'd  have  gone  home  to  Muriel  and  the 
kiddies  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that.  Let's  sit  down  here, 
and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it." 

They  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  grassy  bank  overlooking 
the  valley  and  the  mountains  beyond  it.  Far  beneath 
them  lay  the  village,  and  they  could  see  the  tennis 
courts,  with  little  white  figures  moving  about  without 
any  apparent  purpose.  All  around  them  were  the 
flowers  and  deep  grasses  of  the  pastures,  and  in  their 
ears  the  continual  boom  and  tinkle  of  the  cowbells. 

"  It's  a  jolly  enough  place  to  come  to,  all  the  same," 
said  Walter.     "  I  wish  Muriel  were  here." 

"  Dear  old  boy ! "  said  Nancy,  laying  her  hand  affec- 


J376         THE  CLINTONS.  AND  OTHERS 

tionately  upon  his  knee.  "  I  thought  you  had  come 
because  of  that.  I  should  have  had  to  try  to  do  some- 
thing myself  if  you  hadn't,  because  father  is  having 
such  a  bad  effect  upon  John.  I  can  see  it  plainly.  But 
I  don't  think  I  could  have  done  much.  I  believe  you 
can.'' 

Walter  listened  to  everything  she  had  to  tell  him,  and 
she  felt  his  sympathy  and  understanding.  "  I  should 
know  you  were  a  splendid  doctor,  Walter  dear,"  she 
said,  with  a  smile,  "  even  if  I  didn't  know  anything 
about  you,  except  that  you  were  one.  You  make  me 
feel  that  you  can  put  everything  right." 

"My  bedside  manner,  eh?"  he  said.  "Well,  I'll  do 
my  best.  Poor  old  father!  I  understand  him  better 
now.  He  can't  get  used  to  Dick's  death.  That's  at 
the  bottom  of  it  all.  I  wish  I  could  make  him  believe 
that  I  could  take  his  place,  in  the  only  way  that  would 
satisfy  him.  But  that's  just  where  the  difficulty  is  go- 
ing to  be." 

u  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  —  about  all 
that?  "  Nancy  asked  him  after  a  pause. 

He  paused  too  before  answering  her.  "  I  don't  al- 
low m vself  to  look  far  ahead,"  he  said.  "  I  think  one 
mustn't,  just  now.  As  long  as  the  war  lasts  —  and 
I'm  not  one  of  those  who  believe  it  will  be  over  this  year, 
or  next  either  —  1  shall  have  work  to  do  that  will  take 
every  ounce  of  energy  that  I  have.  And  when  the 
actual  fighting  does  come  to  an  end  my  work  will  go 
on  —  I  don't  know  for  how  long.  My  mind  is  full  of 
it.  When  I  have  time  to  think  about  myself,  which  isn't 
very  often,  it  seems  to  me  that  al)  my  life  has  been  lead- 
ing up  to  this.  If  it's  a  career  that  the  poor  old  Gov- 
ernor wants —  Oh,  well,  I  don't  want  to  buck,  but  per- 
haps I  can  say  it  to  you  —  I've  got  the  sense  of  mastery, 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  377 

all  the  time ;  I  can  rise  to  the  very  top  of  the  tree,  be- 
cause it's  my  job,  that  I've  spent  all  these  years  work- 
ing for.  And  it's  one  of  the  finest  jobs  a  man  can  set 
his  hand  and  brain  to.  I  shall  be  careful  not  to  show 
impatience  with  him  again,  but  it  does  annoy  one  rather, 
when  one  is  in  the  thick  of  all  that's  going  on  now,  and 
absolutely  absorbed  by  it,  to  be  expected  to  give  one's 
mind  to  twopenny  half-penny  little  details  about  farm 
buildings  at  Kencote,  and  the  grass  that  is  to  be 
ploughed  up,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  all  that,  Walter,  dear.  John  can, 
too.  We  are  awfully  proud  of  you,  dear  old  boy.  You 
are  doing  more  than  any  of  us  in  the  family  could  have 
done.  But  it's  difficult  for  father.  Kencote  has  been 
almost  his  religion,  as  Joan  and  I  said  the  other  day. 
It  has  gone  on  for  hundreds  of  years.  The  Squire  of 
Kencote  is  a  very  important  person  in  father's  eyes." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  belittle  his  importance  in  the 
scheme  of  things.  But  it  isn't  actually  the  man  who 
happens  to  be  Squire  of  Kencote  at  any  time  that  is  of 
importance.  What  importance  has  father  himself  just 
now?  Scarcely  any.  I  myself  —  Fm  of  more  impor- 
tance, even  now,  than  I  shall  ever  be  as  Squire  of  Ken- 
cote, though  it  isn't  the  sort  of  importance  that  counts 
with  him." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  that,  too.  So  can  John.  He's  a  big 
landowner  too,  but  he  says  himself  that  he  doesn't 
amount  to  more  than  any  other  old  dug-out.  I  sup- 
pose dear  Dick  was  the  same." 

"  It's  the  line  that  matters.  I  suppose  I'm  as  keen 
on  that  as  father  is,  and  on  Kencote  itself  being  what 
it  has  always  been-  But  there's  no  trouble  about  that 
at  all.  I  don't  suppose  Dick  would  have  had  any  chil- 
dren, if  he'd  lived ;  and  Humphrey  never  seemed  to  want 


378         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

to  marry  again.  Little  Richard  would  have  succeeded 
eventually,  as  he  will  now.  Perhaps  he  would  have  been 
brought  up  to  it.  I  believe  Dick  wanted  that,  from  one 
or  two  things  he  said  to  me.  Father  always  hoped  Dick 
would  have  a  son,  but  I  think  he  and  Virginia  had  re- 
signed themselves.  Anyhow,  little  Richard  will  be 
brought  up  to  it  now.  For  myself  I  want  to  be  left 
free." 

"  Aren't  you  glad  at  all  that  you'll  be  Squire  of  Ken- 
cote  by  and  by  ?  " 

"  It  doesn't  make  up  to  me  in  the  least  for  Dick  be- 
ing killed,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  Oh,  Walter  dearest,  you  know  I  don't  mean  that." 

She  knew  what  close  friends  the  brothers  had  been, 
from  their  childhood.  Humphrey  had  stood  rather 
apart  from  either  of  them;  Frank  was  some  years 
younger,  and  had  been  much  away.  In  spite  of  the  dif- 
ference in  their  lives,  the  tie  between  Dick  and  Walter 
had  only  drawn  closer. 

"  Kencote  has  always  meant  Dick  to  me  when  I  looked 
forward,"  he  said  simply.  "  If  I  think  of  it  as  mine, 
it's  like  putting  him  farther  off.  Besides,  I  have  my 
own  line  in  life,  and  I've  followed  it  now  for  fifteen  years 
or  more.  If  I'd  been  the  eldest  son,  I  should  have  taken 
up  the  business  of  estate  management  just  as  Dick  did 
—  but  even  he  soldiered,  you  know,  for  years  before  he 
settled  down.  I  should  have  enjoyed  it,  too.  I've  got 
a  lot  of  the  countryman  in  me,  and  it's  well  worth  doing, 
with  a  big  property  like  Kencote;  I  don't  deny  that. 
But  it  is  a  business  all  the  same,  and  I've  trained  my- 
self for  another  one,  which  I  think  is  better." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  if  you  can't  help  becoming 
Squire  of  Kencote  you  can't  help  taking  the  responsi- 
bilities." 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  379 

"  I  can  help  devoting  myself  to  all  the  details.  It's 
very  few  big  land-owners  who  give  themselves  up  to  it 
as  father  does  and  as  he  expects  me  to  do.  What  hap- 
pens with  all  the  big  people  who  go  in  for  politics?  Or 
the  big  bankers  and  business  men  who  own  large  prop- 
erties? Or  the  great  soldiers  and  sailors  who  come 
from  our  sort  of  people?  One  can't  help  feeling  that  if 
I  had  got  on  as  far  as  I  have  in  any  profession  except 
the  one  that's  actually  mine,  he  would  take  it  for  granted 
that  I  should  stick  to  it  and  get  on  in  it  still  further. 
The  property  would  have  to  be  managed  by  somebody 
else,  as  it  will  have  to  be,  and  he'd  be  quite  satisfied. 
Of  course  I  shall  be  at  Kencote  a  good  deal,  and  Muriel 
and  the  children  perhaps  more  than  I  shall.  We  shan't 
let  the  old  traditions  die.  I  believe  in  them.  There  are 
a  good  many  changes  coming  in  land-owning,  many  of 
them  as  a  result  of  this  war ;  but  as  long  as  there  are 
big  land-owners,  and  I'm  one  of  them,  I  shall  be  keen 
to  preserve  what  has  been  good  in  it  in  the  past.  We 
shall  always  know  our  people  and  be  friends  with  them. 
It  won't  only  be  a  hard  matter  of  business." 

"  That  always  has  been  the  best  thing  about  the 
old  type  of  Squire,  hasn't  it?  John  feels  that,  too.  I 
think  if  you  can  persuade  father  that  you  look  at  it  in 
that  way,  he  will  be  satisfied.  And  do  try  to  get  him  to 
worry  himself  less  about  the  war,  Walter.  And  talk  to 
John,  too.  He  has  done  all  he  can,  poor  darling,  and 
he  ought  not  to  be  so  sad  that  he  can't  do  anything 
more." 

"  That's  where  I  shall  get  father  both  ways,"  said 
Walter  elliptically. 


380         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

IX 

There  was  to  be  a  dance  at  one  of  the  hotels  the  night 
after  Walter's  arrival,  to  which  "  everybody  "  was  go- 
ing. He  heard  about  it  as  he  was  standing  with  John 
and  Nancy  in  the  tennis  pavilion,  talking  to  some  peo- 
ple to  whom  they  had  introduced  him.  "  That'll  be 
jolly,"  he  said.      "Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Nancy?" 

"  We  hadn't  thought  of  going,"  said  Nancy  with  a 
glance  at  John.  "  We  haven't  been  to  any  of  the 
dances  yet." 

"  Oh,  that's  because  Mr.  Clinton  doesn't  approve  of 
our  amusing  ourselves,"  said  a  sprightly  little  lady  of 
the  group,  "  but  it  will  do  you  both  a  lot  of  good,  and 
I'm  sure  it  won't  do  him  any  harm.  Do  come,  Mrs. 
Spence ;  we  shall  have  lots  of  fun." 

"  Yes,  we'll  come,"  said  Walter.  "  I  haven't  danced 
since  before  the  war." 

They  made  their  way  slowly  up  to  the  chalet  for 
luncheon.  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  go,"  said  John. 
"  The  old  man  doesn't  like  it,  and  I'm  not  sure  he  isn't 
right.  We  ought  not  to  be  dancing  with  all  this  going 
on." 

"  It's  just  what  we  ought  to  be  doing,"  said  Walter 
lightly,  "  when  we're  taking  a  holiday.  That's  what 
you're  doing  at  the  present  moment,  John,  and  the  more 
lively  you  make  it  the  better  man  you'll  be.  I  know 
you  and  Nancy  like  dancing  together,  and  as  Mrs. 
Fetherston  says  it  will  do  you  both  a  world  of  good." 

"  I  think  we  will,  John,"  said  N&ncy.  "  Walter's 
a  doctor  and  he  orders  it  for  us." 

"  The  old  man  won't  like  it,"  said  John,  again. 

Nancy  looked  at  Walter  rather  anxiously.  Was 
John  to  be  "  managed  "  too,  or  taken  into  their  con- 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  381 

fidence?  Walter  had  told  her  that  there  was  nothing 
in  his  state  to  worry  herself  about,  but  she  felt  that  he 
was  watching  him  carefully  all  the  time,  and  was  not 
sure  that  he  was  so  satisfied  about  him  as  he  professed 
to  be.  She  was  greatly  relieved  when  he  answered  at 
once:  "Look  here,  old  man,  you've  been  paying  a 
great  deal  too  much  attention  to  the  Governor's  little 
grumbles.  We've  got  to  get  him  out  of  his  way  of  look- 
ing at  things,  and  send  him  home  more  easy  in  his  mind. 
I'll  tackle  him  about  this  dance,  which  will  do  as  well 
as  anything  else  to  start  on ;  and  you  and  Nancy  must 
back  me  up." 

It  seemed  to  Nancy  that  John  was  pleased  with  this 
speech ;  but  all  he  said  was :  "  It  is  a  serious  business, 
you  know,  Walter  —  this  war.  The  old  man  is  quite 
right  to  object  to  people  taking  it  lightly." 

"  Of  course  he  is  —  the  people  who  have  an}'  of  the 
responsibility  of  it.  Where  he's  wrong  is  in  expecting 
anybody  to  keep  at  high  pressure  all  the  time.  You 
don't  get  things  done  in  that  way.  We've  set  ourselves 
as  a  nation  to  beat  the  Boche,  and  every  one  of  us  who 
can  do  something  must  keep  himself  fit  to  do  it  as  well 
as  he  can." 

"  I  can't  do  anything,  worse  luck  !  " 

"  You  can  keep  up  your  spirits,  old  boy,  and  wait  for 
the  next  move.  You  may  not  be  kept  here  till  the  end 
of  the  war.  And  at  the  present  moment  you  can  do 
a  good  deal.  You  can  help  to  send  father  home  ready 
to  keep  up  other  people's  spirits,  instead  of  depressing 
them,  as  he's  been  doing  up  till  now.  We  shall  have  to 
draw  a  good  deal  more  on  our  reserve  force  before  we're 
through  with  this." 

"  I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  dancing  the 
Turkey  Trot  in  Switzerland,"  said  John.     "  I  sliould 


882  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

like  to  dance  with  Nancy  again,  though.  I'll  see  how 
you  tackle  the  old  man  about  it,  and  back  you  up." 

It  happened  that  the  Squire  was  not  in  a  very  good 
temper.  He  had  had  letters  to  write  that  morning, 
and  had  foregone  his  usual  visit  to  the  tennis  club, 
which  he  rather  enjoyed.  Having  foregone  it,  he  was 
inclined  to  disapproval  of  those  who  spent  their  time  in 
gossiping,  when  they  might  be  doing  something  useful, 
such  as  writing  business  letters  to  England.  He  had 
made  a  virtue  of  staying  indoors,  and  consequently, 
when  he  had  got  through  his  correspondence,  and  there 
were  still  some  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before  lunch- 
eon, he  had  not  liked  to  stultify  himself  by  spending 
the  interval  in  the  pavilion,  which  was  only  five  minutes 
walk  from  the  chalet.  So  he  had  stayed  indoors,  with 
nothing  to  do,  and  was  slightly  annoyed  with  every- 
body but  himself  in  consequence.  It  must  be  admitted 
that  he  was  rather  a  tiresome,  foolish  old  man;  but  he 
was  perhaps  easier  to  manage  in  that  state  than  when 
his  causes  of  discontent  had  gone  so  much  deeper. 
Those  causes  still  existed,  but  they  had  become  over- 
laid by  the  trifles  upon  which  he  now  exercised  his  ca- 
pacity for  worrying  himself  and  other  people. 

He  drew  his  shaggy  brows  together  when  Walter  in- 
troduced the  subject  of  the  dance,  and  said  he  thought 
that  sort  of  thing  might  be  left  to  people  who  hadn't 
yet  woke  up  to  what  was  going  on. 

"  That's  a  view  we  sometimes  discuss,  out  there,"  said 
Walter.     "  There's  something  to  be  said  on  both  sides." 

The  Squire  was  slightly  mollified.  "I  can  only  see 
one  side,"  he  said.  "  The  men  in  the  field  —  they're 
standing  up  to  it.  They  don't  grumble  at  the  wounds 
and  the  pain,  and  the  filth,  and  all  the  beastliness  they 
have  to  go  through." 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  383 

"Oh,  don't  they?"  said  Walter  lightly.  "You 
should  hear  them  at  it.  They  grouse  like  anything, 
but  they  laugh  at  it,  too,  and  then  they  go  and  do  what's 
wanted  of  them,  and  laugh  about  that,  too,  unless  they 
happen  to  get  killed.  I  think  the  British  Tommy  is  one 
of  the  finest  types  you'll  find  anywhere;  but  as  for 
grousing  —  !  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  British  Tommy  has  much  sym- 
pathy with  the  fellows  of  his  class  who  are  shirking  at 
home,"  said  the  Squire,  "  making  money  out  of  the  jobs 
he  has  given  up,  and  letting  him  down  by  striking  if 
they  can't  get  exactly  what  they  want." 

"  No,  he  hasn't.  But  he  has  no  objection  to  people 
at  home  enjoying  themselves,  as  long  as  they  do  their 
share  of  the  work.  It's  what  we're  always  trying  to 
get  for  the  Tommy  himself, —  enjoyment  —  recreation. 
You  see,  father,  we've  settled  down  to  this  war  as  a 
long,  hard  business,  which  must  be  run  on  the  same 
principles  as  any  other  big  business.  The  actual  fight- 
ing is  the  smallest  part  of  it,  if  you  reckon  the  number 
of  men  and  the  number  of  hours  spent  over  it  compared 
with  the  number  of  men  and  the  number  of  hours  pre- 
paring for  it.  You'll  get  the  best  results  if  you  make 
it  all  as  regular  and  normal  as  you  possibly  can.  Give 
a  man  enough  food  and  sleep  and  recreation  outside  hi  • 
times  of  work,  and  take  the  burden  of  his  work  off  his 
shoulders  when  he  isn't  actually  at  it.  Then  you'll  get 
the  work  done  with  the  least  friction  and  the  best  ad- 
vantage." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see  all  that,  Walter,"  said  the  Squire  with 
some  impatience.  "  I'm  not  a  fool,  and  I've  done  some 
soldiering  in  my  time,  though  I  never  saw  active  service. 
I've  never  said  there  was  anything  wrong  with  our 
armies.     It's  the  people  who  aren't  in  them  who  are  not 


384         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

doing  their  duty.  At  least  a  great  many  of  them  aren't, 
and  that's  why  I'm  against  all  this  merry-making,  and 
'  life  as  usual,'  and  all  that  sort  of  tiling.  It  means 
leaving  it  to  the  fighting  men,  and  those  who  haven't 
got  a  sense  of  duty  about  it  standing  outside." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  in  that,"  said  John.  "  When 
you're  fighting  you  feel  that  you're  doing  your  share. 
When  you're  not,  you  do  stand  outside,  and  you  don't 
feel  happy  about  it." 

"It's  different  for  you,  John,"  said  the  Squire  hand- 
somely.     "  You've  done  all  you  can." 

"  Your  duty's  plain  enough,  my  dear  old  John,"  said 
Walter.  "  You've  got  to  get  yourself  fit,  and  to  keep 
up  your  spirits.  So  have  all  the  rest  of  you  here. 
This  is  one  of  the  few  places  in  Europe  at  the  present 
moment  where  getting  as  much  amusement  as  possible 
is  a  positive  duty.  That's  one  reason  why  I  came 
to  it.  I've  been  working  like  a  nigger  myself,  and  I 
want  to  put  it  all  aside  for  a  week,  so  that  I  can  go  back 
and  work  like  a  nigger  again  till  the  time  comes  for 
another  leave.  We'll  all  go  and  dance  tonight,  and 
stay  in  bed  late  tomorrow." 

The  Squire  made  no  further  protest,  but  after 
luncheon,  smoking  with  Walter  on  the  verandah,  he 
said:  "I  dare  say  you're  right  about  John  amu>ing 
himself, —  poor  fellow !  It's  all  these  other  people  here 
who  haven't  done  what  he  and  the  rest  of  them  have  — " 

Walter  took  him  up  decisively.  "  You  must  con- 
sider them  part  of  the  show,  I  think,  father.  They  are 
useful  in  helping  the  prisoners  to  amuse  themselves,  and 
to  forget  that  they  are  prisoners.  I'm  a  bit  worried 
about  John.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  him.  He's 
thinking  far  more  than  he  ought  about  being  a  prisoner. 
There's  no  practical  reason  for  him  to  think  of  himself 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  385 

as  one  at  all,  here  —  at  least  not  now,  at  the  beginning. 
I've  been  keeping  my  eyes  and  ears  open.  I  should  jay 
he's  in  a  worse  state  than  almost  any  of  them." 

The  Squire  exclaimed:  "Why,  his  shoulder  is  get- 
ting better  every  day,"  he  said.  "And  there's  nothing 
else  the  matter  with  him." 

"I  mean  mentally,"  said  Walter  shortly. 

The  Squire  stared,  with  his  mouth  open. 

"  What  I  was  saying  at  lunch  was  a  good  deal  to  his 
address,"  Walter  went  on.  "  I  want  you  to  back  me 
up  as  far  as  you  can  in  taking  his  mind  off  the  war." 

"  What  do  you  mean  —  mentally  ?  "  asked  the  Squire, 
ignoring  this. 

Walter  looked  at  him.  "  Can't  you  see  he's  getting 
into  a  state  of  melancholy?"  he  asked.  "It's  plain 
enough  to  me  as  a  doctor." 

John  came  out  of  the  house  at  that  moment,  and 
Nancy  soon  afterwards.  The  Squire  took  small  part 
in  the  conversation  which  followed,  but  cast  frequent 
glances  at  his  son-in-law,  and  seemed  to  be  in  much 
perplexity. 

They  went  out  to  tea  that  afternoon,  to  a  chalet  on 
the  hill,  where  there  were  a  lot  of  people,  and  much 
agreeable  conversation.  During  the  course  of  it,  the 
Squire  made  some  pronouncement  upon  shirkers  at  home 
in  England,  and  immediately  chanced  to  catch  Wal 
eye  frowning  a  warning  at  him.  This  gave  him  further 
food  for  reflection. 


The  result  of  the  Squire's  reflections  was  the  surpris- 
ing but  not  unencouraging  one  of  his  accompanying 
the  other  three  to  the  dance  that  evening.  His  state- 
ment that  he  didn't  care  about  staying  at  home  alone, 


386         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

and  might  as  well  go  with  them  if  they  weren't  going 
to  be  very  late,  was  received  with  enthusiasm,  but  not, 
of  course,  with  any  surprise  at  his  change  of  face. 
John  Spence  seemed  to  be  most  pleased  with  his  de- 
cision. "We  shan't  stay  very  long,"  he  said:  "just 
a  few  dances,  and  talking  to  people  —  I  really  don't 
think  there's  much  harm  in  it,  Squire." 

The  Squire's  eyes  dropped  at  the  rather  touching 
look  of  appeal  in  his.  "  Oh,  no  harm  at  all,  John,"  he 
said,  quickh'  and  kindly.  "  I've  been  making  a  bit  too 
much  of  it,  perhaps.     Here  it's  all  right." 

This  readiness  to  give  up  his  prejudices,  whenever 
he  was  able  to  see  them  to  be  so,  was  part  of  the  change 
that  the  war  had  brought  him.  Nancy  put  her  arm 
into  his,  and  gave  it  a  grateful  squeeze.  "  Dear  old 
Daddy !  "  she  said.  "  You're  taking  a  holiday,  too. 
You  must  enjoy  yourself  as  much  as  you  can  before 
you  go  back." 

The  Squire,  though  it  may  be  supposed  that  his 
dancing  as  well  as  his  fighting  days  were  long  since 
over,  had  been  accustomed  to  adorn  County  Balls  and 
Hunt  Balls  and  the  like  with  his  presence  at  home  in 
England.  He  had  liked  meeting  his  friends  in  that  way, 
in  surroundings  not  of  every  day,  and  had  passed  away 
contented  hours,  with  talk  and  occasional  refreshment, 
pleased  with  the  music  and  movement  around  him. 

His  enjoyment  this  evening  was  of  the  same  char- 
acter, and  greater,  in  the  early  stages  of  the  enter- 
tainment, than  he  had  anticipated.  The  dancing  was 
in  the  large  hall  of  the  hotel,  and  he  told  one  or  two 
that  it  was  rather  like  the  Assembly  Rooms  at  Bath- 
gate, which  it  wasn't  at  all,  except  for  the  music,  and 
the  dancing  couples,  and  the  people  who  sat  round  and 
looked  on. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  387 

There  were  young  men  there  who  didn't  dance  — 
some  who  would  never  dance  again.  One,  who  walked 
habitually  with  a  stick, , hobbling  painfully  on  a  felt 
slippered  foot,  suddenly  seized  a  partner  and  danced 
a  round  of  the  room  as  if  every  muscle  and  sinew  in 
his  body  were  as  apt  for  his  service  as  his  three  and 
twenty  years  demanded,  then  limped  to  his  seat  again 
and  recovered  his  rubber-shod  stick,  still  laughing  and 
talking  gaily.  Men  with  one  arm  or  a  damaged  hand 
made  necessary  adjustments  with  their  partners,  and 
thanked  their  lucky  stars  that  they  were  sound  on  their 
feet.  Conscious  enjoyment  seemed  even  a  trifle  higher 
than  in  a  crowd  with  the  normal  number  of  sound  limbs. 

The  sense  of  high  courage  and  making  the  best  of 
things  had  its  appeal  for  the  Squire,  and  it  was  deep- 
ened for  him  by  a  lady  to  whom  he  was  talking,  the 
mother  of  one  of  the  boys  who  was  there,  enjoying  him- 
self with  the  same  light-hearted  gaiety  as  if  he  had  been 
finishing  up  his  three  years  at  Cambridge  with  a  May- 
week  ball,  as  he  might  have  been  but  for  the  war.  His 
right  arm  had  been  taken  off  at  the  shoulder,  and  he  was 
gaining  much  amusement  from  instructing  his  succes- 
sive partners  how  to  dance  "  left-footed." 

He  had  left  Cambridge,  and  the  certainty  of  a  cricket 
"  blue,"  at  the  end  of  his  first  year,  trained  hard  for 
his  commission  for  six  months,  gone  out,  been  wounded 
and  "  taken  "  almost  immediately,  spent  months  of  pain 
and  misery  in  a  bad  hospital,  followed  by  more  months 
of  confinement  in  a  bad  prison  camp;  and  so  spent  the 
two  years  in  which  he  would  have  gained  his  athletic 
triumphs,  and  lived  the  life  which  provides  perhaps  the 
happiest  of  all  memories  of  a  man's  youth. 

His  mother  told  his  history  to  the  Squire,  who  lis- 
tened   sympathetically  —  much    more    sympathetically 


388         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

than  he  had  been  accustomed  to  listen  to  such  confidences 
as  a  mother's  about  her  son,  especially,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, one  who  was  not  marked  out  for  the  sort  of 
career  followed  by  young  men  of  his  own  class. 

"  About  the  cricket  and  the  games,"  she  said,  "  I'm 
not  so  dreadfully  sorry  as  perhaps  I  ought  to  be,  as  it 
means  so  much  to  him  to  lose  them.  But  they  were  get- 
ting in  the  way  of  his  work.  It  was  very  important  that 
he  should  take  a  good  degree,  as  he  was  to  have  been  a 
schoolmaster,  and  I'm  afraid  he  wasn't  working  so  hard 
as  he  might  have  done.  I  don't  know  what  will  happen 
now.  Even  if  he  goes  back  to  Cambridge  lie  will  have 
lost  a  lot  of  time.  And  he  says  he  doesn't  want  to  go 
back,  with  so  many  of  his  friends  killed,  and  he  so  much 
older.  However,  nothing  much  matters  at  present,  be- 
side the  fact  that  he  is  here,  and  I  can  see  him  happy 
again.  Oh,  I  do  want  to  keep  him  happy,  and  young, 
Mr.  Clinton.  He  has  been  through  so  much,  and  he  is 
only  a  boy  still.  I  like  nothing  so  much  as  to  see  him 
merry  and  enjoying  himself, —  even  if  the  difficulties  of 
life  are  coming  when  this  respite  is  over." 

The  Squire  felt  some  compunction  at  this  half  ap- 
peal, and  would  have  felt  more  if  he  had  divined  that  he 
was  looked  upon  in  Montcx  as  an  obstacle  to  the  frank 
enjoyment  of  these  times  of  respite.  But  he  had  his 
word  of  comfort.  He  had  always  seen  plainly  —  more 
plainly  than  many  of  his  generation  —  the  debt  owing 
to  the  youth  of  the  fighting  nations.  "  Ah,  it's  the 
young  fellows  who  are  doing  it  all  for  us,  if  you  look 
deep  enough,"  he  said.  "  It's  they  who  are  paying  the 
price,  and  some  of  them  will  go  on  paying  it  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  We  shan't  forget  that,  whin  it  conies 
to  setting  them  up  again  —  those  who  are  left." 

Unfortunately   for  the  Squire's   immediate  peace  of 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  389 

mind,  though  not  perhaps  for  the  ultimately  beneficial 
effect  that  this  evening's  adjustments  had  upon  him, 
he  did  not  escape  a  sharper  pointing  of  the  moral  which 
his  stay  in  Montex  should  have  brought  home  to  him. 

Little  Mrs.  Fetherston,  the  wife  of  a  happy-go-lucky 
subaltern  who  had  married  her  during  a  fortnight's 
leave  and  gone  back  to  the  front  again  to  be  immedi- 
ately wounded  and  taken  prisoner,  was  furious  with  the 
Squire.  Her  husband  seemed  to  have  nothing  the  mat- 
ter with  him  at  all,  and  was  one  of  the  few  whose  release 
was  considered  a  stupendous  piece  of  luck.  He  was  a 
noisy,  rackety  youth,  and  she  was  not  less  noisy  and 
rackety.  If  there  had  been  many  like  this  couple,  the 
Squire's  strictures  would  have  been  justified,  and  he  had 
not  been  alone  in  passing  them  upon  the  Fetherstons. 

Since  her  slight  encounter  with  him  at  the  tennis 
club  that  morning,  Mrs.  Fetherston  had  "heard  some- 
thing." She  came  up  to  the  Squire  with  her  pretty, 
common  little  face  aflame.  "  I'm  surprised  to  see  you 
here,  Mr.  Clinton,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled. 
"  I  thought  you  objected  to  our  having  a  little  fun." 

The  Squire  rose  from  his  seat.  He  saw  that  there 
was  something  to  meet  —  something  more  even  than  was 
meant  by  her  words.  His  brain  did  not  move  quickly, 
but  he  said  quietly :     "  Oh,  no ;  or  I  shouldn't  be  here." 

She,  at  least,  was  quick  enough.  "  And  we  shouldn't 
be  here  if  you  had  your  way,"  she  flashed  at  him.  "  I 
hear  you've  been  saying  that  Alfred  ought  to  be  sent 
back  to  Germany,  and  that  it  would  do  me  good  to  go 
with  him." 

It  was  exactly  what  he  had  said,  in  open  speech ;  but 
he  was  none  the  less  struck  full  by  the  charge,  and  could 
only  falter :  "  I  shouldn't  mean  a  thing  like  that,  Mrs. 
Fetherston,  whatever  I  might  say." 


390         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

She  took  no  notice  of  this.  She  had  worked  herself 
up  to  "  tell  him  what  she  thought  of  him." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  are  here  at  all,"  she  said, 
her  voice  no  longer  trembling,  "  instead  of  doing  some- 
thing in  England,  as  you're  always  talking  about.  Al- 
fred has  fought,  at  any  rate,  and  been  wounded,  and 
for  over  a  year  in  prison  :  and  I've  only  seen  him  for 
ten  days  since  we've  been  married,  till  I  came  here.  And 
he's  young,  and  I'm  young,  and  we  want  to  forget  it. 
Go  back  to  Germany  indeed!  I  wish  you'd  gone 
through  what  he  did  while  he  was  there.  That  would 
give  you  something  to  remember.  You'd  get  on  with 
the  Germans.     You  behave  like  one  yourself." 

She  flounced  off.  Perhaps  she  was  afraid  of  burst- 
ing into  angry  tears ;  perhaps  she  had  used  up  her  pre- 
pared material  too  quickly,  for  it  is  probable  that  the 
last  sentence  had  been  intended  for  the  climax.  But  her 
departure  was  the  most  effective  clinching  of  the  attack 
that  she  could  have  used. 

The  Squire  was  left  speechless,  but  scandalized  in  the 
highest  degree.  Fortunately  he  was  in  a  comparatively 
empty  corner  not  far  from  the  band,  and  it  was  doubt- 
ful whether  Mrs.  Fetherston's  speech  had  been  heard 
by  any  one  except  the  lady  to  whom  he  had  been  talk- 
ing, who  had  herself  been  strongly  critical  of  Mrs. 
Fetherston's  behaviour. 

"  Odious  common  little  cat !  "  was  this  lady's  only 
comment  upon  the  episode ;  and  the  Squire  was  enabled 
to  recover  himself  somewhat,  as  she  continued  her  con- 
versation with  him  on  the  same  lines  as  before  the  at- 
tack. 

But  it  became  plain  before  the  evening  was  out,  by 
the  curious  looks  that  were  cast  at  the  poor  Squire, 
that  Mrs.  Fetherston  had  been  spreading  the  news  of 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  391 

her  triumph ;  and  it  was  not  by  any  means  to  be  taken 
for  granted  from  the  other  lady's  temporary  reticence 
that  she  would  not  also  become  a  sounding-board,  of  a 
lower  but  not  less  damaging  reverberance. 

Nancy  and  John  and  Walter  had  all  heard  something 
of  what  had  happened,  and  heard  the  indignant  account 
of  the  Squire  himself  as  they  walked  slowly  home  in  the 
summer  night.  They  sympathized  with  him,  of  course, 
and  Nancy  said  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty  now 
about  cutting  Mrs.  Fetherston,  for  which  she  was  glad. 
But  by  the  time  they  reached  home  and  the  Squire  had 
worked  off  some  of  his  indignation,  he  began  to  be  aware 
that  of  the  three  of  them  Walter  was  not  quite  so  ad- 
vanced in  his  censure  of  Mrs.  Fetherston  as  he  could 
have  wished,  and  to  suffer  some  disquiet  from  his  aloof- 
ness. 

John  and  Nancy  went  up  to  bed.  Walter  said  he 
would  smoke  a  pipe  on  the  verandah  before  turning 
in,  and  the  Squire,  in  defiance  of  his  usual  habits,  said 
that  he  would  smoke  a  cigar  with  him. 

XI 

"  I  don't  know  when  I've  been  so  annoyed  by  anything 
in  my  life,"  said  the  Squire,  when  he  and  Walter  were 
alone  together.  "  But  perhaps  it's  best  to  forget  all 
about  it.  I  wouldn't  have  had  a  speech  like  that  re- 
peated, and  I  wish  I  could  remember  who  I  said  it  to, 
if  I  did  say  it  — " 

"  You  said  it  to  me  for  one,"  said  Walter. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Squire,  somewhat  taken  aback. 
"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  you  repeated  it,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  had  it  come  to  their  ears,  not  exactly  in  that  form. 
But  I  dare  say  it  won't  do  'em  any  harm  to  know  what's 


392         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

thought  of  them.  I'm  by  no  means  the  only  one  who 
has  been  disgusted  by  the  way  they  behave.  Perhaps 
they'll  be  a  little  more  careful  in  the  future." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so,"  said  Walter,  stirring  in  his  seat. 
"  But  I  think  I  should  be  a  little  more  careful,  too,  if 
I  were  you,  father  —  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  saying 
this.  Most  of  the  men  have  had  a  pretty  bad  time,  and 
it  makes  trouble  to  have  it  known  that  there's  some- 
body always  criticizing  them." 

"  What  do  you  mean  —  always  criticizing  them?" 
exclaimed  the  Squire  in  offence.  "  There's  nobody  who 
thinks  more  than  I  do  of  what  they  have  done  —  most 
of  the  men  here." 

"  I  know.  That's  wh}T  it's  a  pity  to  give  a  wrong  im- 
pression. I've  been  here  long  enough  now  to  see  how 
things  are  going.  If  I  didn't  know  how  you  do  look 
upon  it  all,  I  shouldn't  say  anything.  But  I'm  afraid 
there  are  a  good  many  who  are  on  the  look-out  for  any- 
thing you  may  say  which  seems  to  reflect  upon  them." 

"  Why  not  say  at  once  that  I'd  better  be  out  of  the 
place." 

Walter  was  silent. 

"  Perhaps  that's  what  you  think,"  suggested  the 
Squire. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is,  father,  unless  you  can  change  your 
views  a  bit." 

There  was  a  silence.  Walter  breathed  more  freely 
the  longer  it  lasted.  He  would  never  have  dared  to 
speak  so  openly  in  the  old  days,  but  he  had  divined  that 
his  father  had  changed,  though  there  was  little  in  his 
bearing  now  to  show  it,  and  he  had  ventured  greatly. 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man  at  last,  "  I  don't 
resent  your  plain  speaking.  You  wouldn't  say  a  thing 
like  that  for  the  sake  of  annoying  me.     I've  had  a  very 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  393 

heavy  weight  upon  me,  and  sometimes  it  has  seemed 
more  than  I  could  bear.  I  dare  say  there  are  things 
you  can  see  more  clearly  than  I  can." 

Walter  was  much  moved.  "  Oh,  my  dear  father,"  he 
said,  "  nobody  knows  better  than  I  do  what  it  has  all 
meant  to  you.  I'd  have  given  a  lot  to  be  able  to  ease 
it  for  you  if  I  could.  I  believe  I've  thought  more  about 
you  than  about  anybody,  lately." 

The  Squire  was  moved  in  his  turn.  He  had  been 
proud  of  all  his  sons  in  their  childhood  and  boyhood, 
but  he  had  allowed  the  eldest  to  fill  his  thoughts  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  others  for  many  years  past.  The  tone 
in  which  Walter  had  spoken  showed  him  that  he  was  not 
entirely  bereft.  If  he  had  lost  his  firstborn,  upon  whom 
his  hopes  had  been  set,  here  was  a  son,  of  fine  character 
and  achievement,  who  still  cared  for  him. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "  I  want  nothing  better  than 
that  we  should  work  it  all  out  together,  for  as  long  as 
I'm  spared.  I'm  getting  old.  I  don't  see  all  round  a 
thing  as  I  used  to.  I've  had  a  better  head  than  mine 
to  depend  on  all  these  years.  I  feel  lost  sometimes 
without  it." 

Walter  had  never  heard  his  father  speak  like  this  in 
all  the  years  of  his  life.  He  was  profoundly  touched. 
He  had  known  that  he  would  have  to  settle  the  question 
of  his  own  future  before  he  could  hope  to  influence  him 
towards  a  more  wholesome  outlook,  and  had  puzzled  his 
brain  as  to  how  it  was  to  be  done  without  presenting 
him  with  another  grievance.  Now,  for  the  moment,  he 
was  almost  minded  to  give  way  completely,  to  give  up 
everything  for  his  father's  sake,  so  that  his  loss  might 
be  less  to  him,  and  he  might  live  out  the  rest  of  his  days 
in  contentment. 

But    the    impulse    was    only    momentary.     He    had 


394         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

thought  it  all  out  so  carefully,  and  knew  beyond  doubt 
where  his  duty  lay. 

"  If  I  were  doing  anything  else  but  what  I  am  doing, 
father,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  should  give  it  up,  after  the 
war,  to  settle  down  at  Kencote,  and  be  with  you.  I 
know  I  shall  have  duties  there,  which  I  haven't  had  be- 
fore; and  I  shan't  neglect  them.  But  I've  thought  a 
lot  about  it,  and  it  seems  to  me  clear  enough  that  there 
are  other  duties  which  come  before  them." 

"  Oh,  just  now  of  course  there  are,"  said  the  Squire, 
in  a  tone  as  if  he  were  putting  a  weakness  away  from 
him.  "  Nothing  comes  before  duty  to  one's  country. 
Nobody  feels  that  more  strongly  than  I  do." 

"  Well,  if  you'll  let  me  tell  you  how  it  strikes  me,  I 
hope  you'll  be  able  to  see  it  as  I  do." 

The  Squire  was  about  to  speak,  but  Walter  went  on 
hurriedly :  "  Just  at  present,  the  outstanding  busi- 
ness is  to  beat  the  Germans.  But,  you  see,  my  job  isn't 
even  to  beat  the  Germans." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Walter?  You're  not  fighting; 
but  you're  doing  work  that  has  to  be  done.  If  I've 
said  anything  that  looks  as  if  I  made  little  of  it  —  it's 
not  what  I  mean." 

"  I'm  doing  work  that  has  to  be  done ;  yes.  But  only 
a  little  of  it  would  help  us  to  win ;  perhaps  only  the  men 
we  mend  up  so  that  they  can  go  back  and  fight.  The 
rest  of  it  is  putting  right  what  the  war  is  destroying, 
so  that  the  world  can  go  on." 

The  Squire  did  not  quite  understand  this;  but  he 
was  in  a  receptive  mood,  and  waited  for  more. 

"  What  are  we  fighting  for?  "  Walter  went  on.  "  If 
you  look  behind  it  all,  it's  just  so  that  our  own  country, 
and  other  countries  who  are  with  us,  shall  keep  our  free- 
dom, to  live  our  lives  in  our  own  way,  and  not  in  the  way 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  395 

the  Germans  want  to  impose  on  the  world.  WWe 
fought  for  that  before,  and  it's  worth  fighting  for.  But 
when  we've  finished  fighting,  and  established  our  freedom 
again,  there  will  come  years  and  years  in  which  we  shall 
have  to  mend  up  what  the  war  has  broken.  That's  what 
it  seems  to  me  that  men  in  my  position  must  keep  before 
them.  Our  work  will  be  at  its  very  climax  when  the 
fighting  ends." 

"  Yes,  I  see  that,"  said  the  Squire  rather  unwillingly. 
"  But  it  won't  be  only  the  wounded  men  who  will  want 
setting  right.  There's  the  land,  and  labour  questions, 
and  so  forth.  We  shall  be  in  the  thick  of  all  sorts  of 
difficulties,  for  years  to  come.  Land-owners  will  be  at- 
tacked —  not  a  doubt  about  it.  People  like  ourselves, 
who  own  land,  won't  be  able  any  longer  to  draw  their 
rents  and  leave  it  to  somebody  else  to  do  the  work  for 
them.  If  we  can't  show  that  we  have  our  place  to  fill, 
and  a  very  important  place,  and  are  doing  our  duty  by 
the  people  dependent  on  us  —  well,  we  shan't  be  able 
to  defend  ourselves,  and  we  shall  go  under.  To  my 
mind,  it's  the  duty  of  a  land-owner  now-a-days  —  what- 
ever it  may  have  been  in  the  past  —  to  live  on  his 
estates,  and  to  make  them  the  chief  interest  of  his  life. 
If  we  had  all  done  that,  there'd  be  no  land  question; 
or  at  least  we  should  be  recognized  as  the  people  who 
know  more  about  the  land  than  anybody,  instead  of 
being  looked  upon  simply  as  standing  in  the  way  of 
progress." 

Walter  listened  carefully  to  this  speech.  He  did  not 
find  it  merely  prejudiced,  as  so  many  of  his  father's 
speeches  on  this  all-important  question  had  been  apt  to 
be.  The  Squire  was  already  of  a  past  generation,  but. 
according  to  his  lights  he  had  done  his  duty  and  per- 
haps more  than  his  duty.     The  principles  upon  which 


396         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

land  had  been  held  for  centuries  past  were  based  upon 
a  rock  of  right  and  justice,  and  any  tampering  with 
them  was  to  be  resisted,  not  only  on  behalf  of  his  own 
order,  but  as  a  grave  danger  to  the  State.  But  he  had 
recognized  all  his  life  the  responsibilities  that  go  with 
landed  possessions.  If  he  had  looked  upon  his  tenantry 
as  subject  to  him  in  many  ways  that  no  longer  march 
with  the  ideals  of  a  free  democracy,  he  had  yet  shown 
a  sense  of  human  identity  with  them  not  always  in- 
herent in  democratic  movements.  He  and  they  were 
not  merely  employer  and  employed.  With  all  the  dif- 
ferences between  them,  differences  designed  by  a  wise 
and  over-ruling  Providence,  they  were  of  the  same  flesh 
and  blood,  and  came  together  in  many  aspects  of  life 
which  elsewhere  revealed  only  impassable  gulfs.  It  was 
a  conviction  worthy  of  respect  that  it  was  the  duty  of 
a  land-owner  to  live  among  his  people  and  make  himself 
one  with  them. 

"  I  think  that  you  have  brought  us  all  up  with  a  right 
view  of  those  questions,"  Walter  said.  "  I  agree  with 
you  entirely  in  them.  There's  no  need  to  discuss  what 
is  to  be  done  as  long  as  the  war  lasts.  I  have  my  work 
to  do  and  you  have  yours ;  there  are  no  changes  to  be 
made.  But  after  the  war  I  should  expect  to  make  Ken- 
cote  my  home.  I  mean  if  I  can  have  a  house  there ;  Mu- 
riel and  the  children  will  live  there,  and  I  should  be  there 
as  much  as  possible." 

"Well,  that's  all  I  want,  Walter.  It's  for  you  to 
take  poor  dear  Dick's  place.  I'd  never  have  said  a  word 
of  my  own  accord  about  Virginia  leaving  the  Dower 
House.  If  she'd  wanted  she  could  have  lived  there  as 
long  as  T  lived.  But  she  said  herself  that  when  we  went, 
back  to  the  House  she'd  like  to  come  with  us.  Your 
mother  loves  her,  and  so  do  I;  and  she  loves  us.     We 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  397 

bear  each  other  up.  She  said  herself  that  you  ought  to 
live  in  the  Dower  House,  after  the  war.  She's  won- 
derful in  that  way.  Not  a  thought  about  your  taking 
Dick's  place,  as  of  course  you  must  do  —  I  mean  in  the 
way  in  which  it  would  affect  her." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  She's  wonderful  —  dear  Virginia ! 
I'm  glad  she's  to  be  with  you  and  mother,  father.  She's 
like  a  daughter  to  you.  And  if  you  want  us  to  live  in 
the  Dower  House,  after  the  war,  it's  what  we  should 
like,  too." 

"  I  suppose  what  you  mean  is  that  you'll  be  up  and 
down  a  good  deal.  You  won't  really  make  Kencote 
your  home,  to  look  after  the  place  —  as  Dick  did  — 
and  have  that  as  your  chief  interest  in  life." 

"  I  couldn't  do  what  Dick  did,  father.  I  should  only 
be  a  bad  copy  of  him.  It  would  be  rather  painful  for 
me.     I  think  it  would  be  for  you,  too,  in  some  ways." 

There  was  a  silence.  "  You  and  Dick  were  always 
great  friends,"  said  the  old  man  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Walter  simply.  "  Always  great 
friends." 

There  was  another  pause.  Then  the  Squire  said,  in 
a  different  tone :  "  I  don't  know  that  we  need  talk 
about  it  any  more,  Walter.  Perhaps  you're  right,  after 
all.  I  can  see,  anyhow,  that  your  work  won't  be  finished 
when  the  war  is  over, —  perhaps  not  for  some  years 
after.  Kencote  must  take  second  place  with  you. 
Yes,  I  see  that.  But  if  Muriel  and  the  children  are 
there—  !" 

"  There  will  be  little  Richard,"  Walter  said,  "  who 
will  come  after  me.  You'll  have  him  growing  up  there, 
father.  I  should  like  him  to  be  to  you  what  you  were 
to  your  grandfather  when  you  were  a  child.  I  think 
Dick  would  have  liked  that,  too  —  for  him  to  be  brought 


398         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

up    at    Kencote.     I    told    Nancy    so    the    other    day." 

The  Squire  brightened.  "  Dick  and  I  often  talked 
about  him,"  he  said.  "  I  always  hoped  that  Dick  might 
have  had  a  son  of  his  own  ;  but  —  well,  that's  all  over.  I 
should  take  a  great  pride  —  and  pleasure  —  in  teaching 
the  boy  things,  Walter  —  having  him  a  good  deal  with 
me.  Yes,  it  would  be  something  like  it  was  when  I  was 
a  child  —  myself,  with  my  grandfather  —  it  doesn't 
seem  so  very  long  ago.  I'm  fond  of  the  little  chap. 
I've  often  thought  he  was  growing  up  very  like  Dick." 

"I  shouldn't  want  anything  better,  father.  And 
you'd  have  a  good  deal  to  say  in  making  him  so." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  while  both  of  them  were  busy 
with  their  thoughts. 

Walter  was  feeling  a  great  sense  of  relief.  It  had 
been  easier  than  he  had  feared.  But  his  father  had 
always  been  like  that.  He  would  cling  obstinately  to 
an  idea,  and  back  it  up  with  speech  so  strong,  and  some- 
times so  intemperate,  that  it  would  seem  as  if  nothing 
would  move  him.  And  then  he  would  give  way  all  of 
a  sudden,  and  follow  out  a  new  idea,  perhaps  diametri- 
cally  opposed  to  the  old  one,  with  the  same  eagerness. 
The  crux  was  in  finding  the  right  word  to  turn  him. 

There  would  be  no  more  trouble  now  about  Walter's 
own  part  as  heir  to  Kencote.  He  would  be  free  to  give 
himself  up  to  the  work  he  had  determined  to  do.  The 
details  of  estate  management  would  be  spared  him;  and 
he  would  not  be  expected  to  follow  exactly  in  Dick's 
footsteps,  as  the  Squire  had  seemed  so  ardently  to  de- 
sire He  smiled  as  he  told  himself  that  if  he  were  now 
to  turn  round  and  offer  to  do  what  his  father  had 
wished  up  to  a  few  minutes  .•>"<>.  difficulties  would  prob- 
ably be  put  in  I  he  way.  He  grew  grave  again  as  he 
asked  himself  whether  the  opportunity  had  yet  come 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  399 

to  search  for  the  word  that  would  put  his  father  right 
with  himself  in  other  respects.  He  would  not  have 
done  all  that  he  had  come  to  Switzerland  hoping  to  do 
if  he  could  not  send  him  back  to  England  healed  of  the 
worst  of  his  troubles,  and  in  the  way  of  helping  others 
to  bear  theirs. 

But  it  would  be  better  to  wait.  This  new  turn  to 
the  Squire's  thoughts  might  of  itself  bring  him  to  a 
more  stable  frame  of  mind. 

The  Squire  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  jagged 
line  of  the  mountains,  but  he  hardly  saw  them.  A  vi- 
sion of  quiet  English  woods  and  fields  rose  before  him. 
He  saw  himself  leading  a  little  child  by  the  hand,  talking 
to  him  and  answering  his  questions.  And  sometimes  he 
himself  seemed  to  be  the  child,  the  companion  of  one 
who  had  been  in  his  grave  fifty  years  and  more.  He 
was  happier  at  this  moment  than  he  had  been  since  the 
war  had  come  crashing  in  to  destroy  the  ordered  life 
he  had  lived  for  all  his  years,  and  to  ruin  the  hopes  to 
which  that  life  led. 

He  had  loved  Walter's  little  son,  but  there  had  always 
been  mixed  up  with  his  love  a  faint  jealousy.  In  his 
brain,  which  did  not  work  logically,  there  had  lodged 
the  idea  that  this  child  was  the  dispossessor  of  the  child 
who  should  have  been  born  to  his  eldest  son.  But  Dick 
—  right  in  every  way — had  accepted  him  as  his  own 
successor,  and  now  that  maggot  was  cleared  away  from 
his  brain.  He  could  take  the  boy  in  hand,  as  he  had 
taken  Dick  in  hand,  and  taught  him  to  ride  and  to 
shoot,  and  to  prepare  himself  for  what  was  one  day  com- 
ing to  him.  He  had  been  called  after  Dick,  and  Dick 
was  his  godfather.  He  would  be  almost  like  Dick's  own 
son.  And  be  very  sure  that  he  would  be  taught  to 
honour  and  keep  green  the  memory  of  the  uncle  who, 


44)0         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

born  to  great  possessions,  had  given  them  up,  and  his 
life  as  well,  when  his  country  had  called  him. 

Yes,  Kencote  would  go  on,  and  it  would  be  he  who 
would  train  its  heir  of  the  third  generation  to  the  duties 
and  pleasures  that  would  fall  to  him,  much  as  he  had 
been  trained  by  its  possessor  of  two  generations  before 
his  own.  There  was  much  solace  in  that  thought.  It 
was  possible  once  more  to  look  forward,  where  every- 
thing seemed  to  have  been  brought  to  a  sudden  over- 
whelming  end. 

By  and  by  he  began  to  talk  quietly  about  little  Rich- 
ard, and  Walter  saw  that  the  healing  process  had  begun. 
His  last  words  as  they  parted  that  night,  were:  "I 
must  look  about  for  a  pony  for  him  when  I  get  back 
home.  Dick  had  his  first  pony  when  he  was  much 
younger.     There's  no  time  to  lose." 

XII 

The  Squire  and  John  Spence  were  walking  across 
fields  from  which  the  hay  had  now  been  cut,  but  with 
the  same  panorama  of  rocky  mountain,  wood  and  up- 
land pasture  to  keep  them  company.  The  Squire  was 
getting  rather  tired  of  it,  and  longing  for  the  softer 
contours  and  colours  of  his  own  woods  and  fields.  He 
was  going  back  to  England  the  next  day.  He  had 
asked  John  to  come  for  a  walk  with  him  that  afternoon, 
and  it  became  plain  after  a  time  that  he  had  asked  him 
with  a  purpose.  John  knew  what  it  was.  But  neither 
of  them  seemed  able  to  break  the  ice. 

It  was  not  until  they  had  walked  a  mile,  and  talked 
desultorily  about  many  things,  that  the  Squire  said 
suddenly,  "  You  were  with  my  boy  when  he  died,  John. 
Tell  me  all  about  it." 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  401 

John  began  without  any  preamble.  "  There  wasn't 
much  time.  I  hadn't  been  able  to  get  to  him  earlier. 
He  was  already  slipping  away.  They  couldn't  do  any- 
thing more  for  him,  so  they  left  us  alone  and  I  sat  by 
him  till  he  died.  He  was  very  glad  to  see  me.  He 
knew  he  was  going.  Sometimes  he  said  a  few  words, 
and  then  he  seemed  to  lose  consciousness.  At  the  end 
I  just  held  his  hand.  I  wasn't  quite  certain  when  he 
died.     It  was  as  quiet  as  that." 

"  He  was  terribly  wounded  wasn't  he?  But  you  said 
in  your  letter  that  he  didn't  suffer  much." 

"  They  said  he  didn't,  and  there  weren't  any  signs 
of  it.  You'd  only  have  said  he  was  rather  drowsy. 
He  looked  just  the  same,  too  —  his  face,  and  the  hand 
that  was  outside  the  coverings.  You  can  think  of  him, 
you  know,  as  just  passing  away  quietly,  as  if  he'd  had 
an  illness.     It  isn't  always  like  that." 

"  Ah,  what  wouldn't  I  have  given  to  be  with  him !  " 

"  He  thought  about  you.  I  couldn't  tell  you  every- 
thing in  a  letter,  but  I've  been  wanting  to." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  could  have  stood  it  before, 
John.  I  loved  the  boy.  I  couldn't  bear  the  thought 
of  him  dead,  and  everything  over.  But  I  want  to  hear 
all  about  it  now.  It'll  bring  him  closer  instead  of 
putting  him  further  off." 

"  I've  felt  like  that  about  it,  too.  There  were  other 
fellows  who  were  at  school  with  us,  and  in  the  regiment, 
who  have  been  killed.  One  just  says:  'There's  So-and- 
So  gone.  He  was  a  good  fellow.'  You  don't  feci  it 
very  much;  there  are  too  many  of  them.  They've 
just  left  off.  But  being  with  Dick  at  the  end,  it  makes 
it  different,  somehow.  I  didn't  get  over  his  death  for 
a  long  time;  but  it  wasn't  all  trouble  either.     There 


402         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

seemed  to  be  more  of  him  left.  It'll  always  be  like 
that." 

"  You  say  he  thought  about  me.  John,  at  the  last. 
Did  he  mention  my  name?  —  send  me  any  message?" 

"  It  wasn't  quite  like  that.  If  there  had  been  a 
message  I  should  have  written  it.  But  he  did  mention 
your  name.  He  was  too  far  gone  really  to  talk,  you 
know.  It  was  just  a  sentence  now  and  then.  When 
I  went  in  he  smiled  at  me,  and  said:  'Good  for  you, 
John.  I  knew  you'd  come  if  you  could.'  Then  I  sat 
down  by  him,  and  all  I  could  find  to  say  was :  '  Sorry 
to  see  you  like  this,  Dick.  I'm  glad  they  got  me 
in  time.'  Then  he  said :  '  If  you  get  through,  tell 
Virginia  I  was  thinking  about  her  up  to  the  end; 
and  say  I  love  her.'  I  said:  'Yes.  I  will,  Dick.' 
After  that  he  didn't  say  anything  for  a  bit.  but  lay 
with  his  eyes  shut.  I  think  he'd  made  up  his  mind  to 
get  just  that  message  to  her,  and  had  kept  his  mind 
to  it.  I  didn't  know  whether  he'd  be  able  to  say  any 
more  at  all,  and  just  sat  quiet.  Then  he  opened  his 
eyes  again,  and  talked  a  little,  about  Virginia.  I 
can't  tell  you  all  he  said,  but  I'll  save  it  up  to  tell 
her.  I've  tried  to  write  it,  but  it  doesn't  sound  the 
same.  Nancy  says  I'd  better  wait.  You'll  tell  her 
when  you  get  home,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  John." 

"He  said;  'Father  will  look  after  her  as  lonLr  ai 
he  lives.  He  loves  her  for  her  own  sake  as  well  as  for 
mine.'  " 

They  had  come  to  a  seat  hv  the  field  path.  The 
Squire  sat  down  on  it,  and  John  sat  by  him.  The  old 
man'-,  voice  trembled  .■»>  lie  said:  "  I  made  a  fuss  about 
his  marrying  her.     I   wish  to  God  I  hadn't.     But  it 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  10:5 

was   years   ago*.     He   must,   have   forgiven    it,  John." 
"He  wouldn't  have  said   that  if  he   hadn't,  would 

he?     JI<-  trusted   her   bo  you.     And   to   Mrs.   Clinton 

too.     He  said:  «]  hope  she'll  go  on  living  with  them. 

I   like   to   think   of  her  with   them  at  home  al    Ken 

cote.     They'll    talk    about    me    as    if    I    were    there. 

too.' " 
"J  haven't,  talked  miieli  about  him.     I  couldnM  bear 

to.     Now  I  will.     I  believe  it   will  lake  away  some  of 

their    I  rouble.       I've    thought    loo   inuel.    about   m\    own, 

John." 

Bes1  to  talk  aboul  tin-  people  who're  gone,  if  you 
love  them,"  said  .John  laconically. 

"Yes,    I    think    so    now.      Did   he   say   anything  more 

about  anything  he  warded  done?" 

"Thai  second  lime  he  spoke  was  the  longest.  After 
that    it    was     just,    a    sentence    now    and    then.      I    think 

he'd  let.  his  mind  go  free.  I  suppose  that,  generally 
happens   when   they're  just,  sinking,   and    losing  hold. 

He'd    said    all    he    really    wanted    to   say.      He   had    sent 

his  message  to  Virginia,  and  Nil  her  to  you  and  .Mrs. 
Clinton,  and  felt  at    res!   about  her.     That's  exactly 

as  it,  Struck  me  at  the  lime.  ll  wasn't,  only  I  he  words 
lie  said.  If  their  had  been  anything  lie  wanted  sillied 
aboul  her  he'd  haw  saved  himself  up  to  say  it.  What 
he  wauled  was  to  lei  her  know  what  she  was  to  him 
up  to  the  last.  After  I  hat  he'd  know  he  couldn't. 
do  anything  more  tor  her  —  more  than  you  would 
do  of  your  own  accord." 

"•You  really  think  that  was  in  his  mind,  John? 
You're    not   saying   it   only   to    bring   me    comfort  ?  " 

"Tin  quite  sure  that  was  how  it  was  with  him.  His 
mind  was   at    rest." 

"Well,  it  is  a  comfort.      And  it's  a  trust.     God  bless 


id  THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

the  dear  boy!     He  knew  he  could  trust  her  to  me  — 

to  us.  His  mother  will  be  glad  to  have  it  like  that 
when  I  tell  her.  Then  alter.  John?  What  more  did  he 
say  before  he  died?  M 

"  Very  little  more.  A  sentence  now  and  then,  with 
his  eyes  closed.  It  reminded  me  of  a  child  feeling 
wrv  sleepy,  hut  not  wanting  t.>  go  off  to  sleep.  It 
wafl  then  he  took  hold  of  mv  hand  —  poor,  dear  old 
Dick !  " 

"I  used  sometimes  to  sit  with  him  like  that  when 
he  was  a  little  chap,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  he  used 
to  hold  mv  hand  because  he  wanted  to  feel  I  was  there 
And  sometimes  he'd  say  something  so  tliat  I  should 
know  he  wasn't  asleep  yet,  and  stay  with  him.  Was 
it   like  that,  John?" 

•'  5Tes,  just  like  that.  Perhaps  he  was  back  in  his 
childhood  again,  and  thought  it  was  your  hand  he 
was  holding.  He  said  something  once  that  I  didn't 
quite  catch  —  something  about  wet  grass  and  a  little 
nest." 

"Can't  you  remember  exactly  what  it  was  he  said, 
John?     Do  try." 

"I  couldn't  catch  it.      Little  eggs  in  a  nest  and  wet 
that's    what    I    remember." 

"Once  when   he  was  a  liny  little  chap,  I  took  him 

to  -.,-,.  ,-,  wnn's  nest  in  some  ivy,  and  he  went  again  to 
see  it  for  himself  avid  got  his  feet  very  Wet,  and 
Caught     a    bad    cold.       I     sat    with    him    that     night.      I 

remember   it   quite  well,   though   I'd   forgotten   it   for 

H    mutt   have   been    that    he   was   thinking  of, 
and    thought    I    was    wilh   him." 

"  Yes,  it  looks  like  it.  It  was  the  only  thing  he 
said  that  I  didn't  understand.  At  the  end  it  »m>  Vir- 
ginia hi    seined   to  think  was  with  him.      He  was  past 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  M)5 

any  effort  to  keep  her  before  him,  but  you  see  his 
thoughts  were  always  full  of  her.  The  last  thing 
he  said  before  he  seemed  just  to  fall  asleep  was  a  sort 
of  good-night  to  her.  I'll  tell  her  when  I  see  her. 
I'm  not  sure  how  long  it  was  after  that  that  he  died. 
I  sat  with  him  for  a  long  time.  Then  they  came  and 
said  I'd  better  go.  Poor  old  Dick  —  there  weren't 
many  like  him." 

The  Squire  sat  silent,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
After  a  time  he  said :  "  Thank  you,  John.  You've  done 
me  a  lot  of  good.  I've  wanted  to  know  all  this,  and 
I  wish  I'd  asked  you  before.  But  I  suppose  I  wasn't 
ready  for  it.  If  I  could  have  been  with  him  it  might 
have  been  different  with  me  for  the  last  two  years. 
It's  going  to  be  different  now.  There's  Virginia  to 
think  of.  She's  lost  more  than  I  have.  But  we've 
both  got  him  to  keep  as  part  of  our  lives,  though  he's 
dead." 

"  It  never  seems  to  me  as  if  he's  dead.  Men  like 
that,  who  have  counted  for  a  lot  to  others,  don't  die 
—  not  in  your  mind." 

"  I  suppose  that's  what  I  mean.  We  shall  go  on 
as  if  he  was  there.  His  place  will  always  be  kept 
for  him.  I  think  that's  what  Walter  wants,  too. 
He's  quite  right  —  I've  come  to  see  that  —  in  not 
wanting  to  step  into  his  shoes." 

"  Wr alter  has  felt  his  death  very  much.  He  told  me 
that  it  was  nothing  but  hard  work  that  kept  him  going 
at  first.  And  since  then  he's  wanted  more  than  any- 
thing to  feel  that  things  were  going  on  just  the  same 
at  Kencote  as  if  Dick  were  there." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that?  Walter's  a  good  boy, 
though  he  can't  be  what  Dick  was.  It  isn't  many 
men  who   have  so  much  to  gain  who   would   feel   like 


406         THE  CLINTONS,  AND  OTHERS 

that.  But  everybody  does  feel  like  that  about  Dick. 
Well,  I  see  it  clearer  now  that  it's  for  me  to  keep 
things  going  at  Kencote,  as  long  as  I'm  alive,  as  Dick 
liked  to  think  of  them  kept  going.  Perhaps  it's  what 
I  can  do  best.  I'm  too  old  now  to  have  much  weight  in 
the  war.  I  make  mistakes  and  upset  people.  I  can 
do   something,   but  — ." 

"  I  think  you've  done  a  great  deal.  You've  run 
Kencote  for  a  hospital  for  one  thing.  It's  not  many 
who  could  have  done  so  much  as  that." 

"  Oh,  that  was  just  one  thing  that  there  wasn't 
much  trouble  about  doing." 

"  It  has  been  a  pretty  big  thing.  And  aren't  the 
things  like  that,  which  a  man  is  in  a  position  to  do, 
and  others  can't,  just  what's  wanted  from  everybody? 
Seems  so  to  me." 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,  John.  It's  the  one  thing 
I've  done  that's  been  of  some  use,  though  it  has  cost 
me  less  trouble  than  anything.  I  suppose  Dick  didn't 
say  anything  about  the  war  at  all  —  while  you  were 
with  him  at  the  end." 

"  No,  lie  wasn't  thinking  about  that.  He'd  given 
his  life,  you  see.  It  was  off  his  mind.  Accounts 
squared,  you  might  say." 

The  Squire  considered  this.  "  That's  how  he  took  it, 
no  doubt,"  he  said.  "  He'd  do  his  duty  —  nobody 
better  —  and  leave  all  the  rest.  That's  what  all  of 
us  ought  to  do."  , 

"  We  can't  do  more  —  those  of  us  who  are  out  of  it 
for  one  reason  or  another.  Best  just  to  carry  on, 
and  wait  for  the  end.     Take  it  as  it  comes." 

The  Squire  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  on  to  the 
ground,  and  then  raised  his  eyes  to  the  hills.    There  was 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  WAR  407 

sorrow  in   them,  but  no  longer  perplexity,  or  irrita- 
tion. 

He  rose  from  the  seat.  "  I'm  glad  I  came  out 
here,"  he  said.  "  But  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  home 
again  where  I  belong,  and  Dick  belongs." 


THE    END 


DATE  DUE 


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